


The Unexpected Key

by Desiderii



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: BAMF John Watson, F/M, Female Friendship, Female Reginald Musgrave, Female Sherlock Holmes, Female Victor Trevor, John "Three Continents" Watson, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Practical Sherlock is Practical, Recovery From Long-term Illness, Romance Novel, Rule 63, Sex swap, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Gives No Fucks About Victorian Morality, Victorian, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian England As Written By An Under-researched American, gender swap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 15:18:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 66,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desiderii/pseuds/Desiderii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miss Sherlock Holmes objects most strenuously to the very idea of finding a husband. Instead of accepting that she must, she sets out to ensure she will never have to.</p><p>John Watson, invalided home and recovering from a nasty bout of enteric fever, never thought to find anyone interested in him ever again, let alone someone like Sherlock. </p><p>Victorian Era with a rule 63 Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock Scolds Molly / Mycroft's Study

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based off a [kinkmeme prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?thread=117446687#t117446687) (linked in case you want mild spoilers) that read like the back of a romance novel. I thought to myself, "I read a great many romance novels, especially Victorian ones. Perhaps this is a fic I could write." It turned out to be a very Sherlock romance novel, but a romance novel nevertheless. 
> 
> To make it clear, Sherlock has been rule-63'd to Miss Sherlock Holmes, but both she and John are primarily characterized using BBC Sherlock interpretations. Other details have been taken from ACD's canon and sprinkled liberally throughout.
> 
> Thanks to [ureshiiichigo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ureshiiichigo/pseuds/ureshiiichigo) for being my beta, as well as [marlowe_tops](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marlowe_tops/pseuds/marlowe_tops) for tea and cheerleading.
> 
> All anachronisms, Americanisms, typos, and bad research are all on me.

Sherlock appraised herself in the mirror, standing very still so her maid might not stab her with a misplaced pin. The full-length pane on the wall of her bedroom was her one concession to her vanity. It allowed her to see herself in entirety, from the top of her coiled hair to her bare feet that peeked out from her ragged hem. “Molly-” She grasped her half-finished skirts and pulled them out of her line of sight so she could stare at her maid via reflection. “The left hem is half an inch too short. Do you want to simply march to the roof and shout your disdain for conventional tailoring? I’ll look positively French.” 

“It wouldn’t be too short if you’d stop fussing and let me finish properly.” Molly complained, though not as loudly as she might. That she was complaining at all was testament to her state of exasperation, her face flushed and hair coming free of her bun. “No one but you would notice.” 

“It would distract me.” Sherlock released her skirts and smoothed her hands down the fabric as it curved over her hips, avoiding the pins. “I’d know it was half an inch short. If I am going to be forced to London when Mycroft leaves, then I would like to do so in my best. The gossip during the season would make a rake blush and if I’m going to debut in purple - unless some other purple gown is in the works? - then I will not debut in an unintentionally asymmetrical frock.” Sherlock, who had been making idle speculation in hopes of garnering some sort of reaction from her maid, saw Molly freeze. Gratified by the young woman’s obvious startlement, Sherlock asked directly, “Molly? Does this mean you can confirm I will be debuting this year?” 

“No, Miss.” She replied far too quickly. 

Sherlock turned away from the mirror and gazed down. Molly was a bundle of nerves today. Where before Sherlock had assumed it was because the ambitious pattern stretched Molly’s seamstress skills, it now became clear that she had been preparing for questions she wasn’t allowed to answer. The clever girl would know beyond doubt that the curiosity of a new evening dress in February would draw her mistress’s attention. Molly tucked pins back into their cushion as she plucked them from the lopsided skirt and studiously avoided looking anywhere above Sherlock’s knees. 

Sherlock smiled and said, “I shall take that as you have been ordered not to confirm, since I rather doubt I am wrong. Thank you.” 

“It’s a whole wardrobe. This is just the first of many.” Molly said, which neither confirmed nor denied. She needed do neither. Sitting back on her heels, she let the pincushion roll down her lap to the floor. Frustration, annoyance, and no small amount of ferocity coloured her voice as she said, “You will be beautiful. I swear it. Even if I have to hem every flounce thrice.” A beat later, she looked up wide-eyed.

It was best if Sherlock did not acknowledge Molly’s outbursts, though she filed her maid’s sentiments away for later. “I have no doubt of that, and your enthusiasm is commendable. However, you are welcome to inform anyone who cares that I will not be needing a new wardrobe.” 

“Miss?” Molly asked, frowning and reaching for the temporary fasteners on Sherlock’s skirt. “Surely you don’t mean that? You’ll have nothing to wear in London.”

“How convenient. I shall not be residing in London and thus require nothing to wear.” 

“You’ll miss your first season!”

Sherlock shifted her weight and ignored Molly’s alarm, fidgeting and running her thumb across her fingertips repeatedly, comforted by the feel of her callouses. “And I shall miss my second and third if possible. I plan to become an spinster with only my chemicals for company.” Her gaze slid to Molly’s disbelieving expression. “It is a consummation devoutly to be wished.” 

“Surely you don’t mean that, Miss Sherlock.” Molly said, setting the dressmaking project aside once it came free, basting intact and chalk unsmudged, and lifting Sherlock’s day dress. “A good match gets you off the estate and out of your mother’s home. More besides, Master Mycroft is too political for you to avoid a proposal.” 

The half-finished dress finally off, Sherlock stood in her shift and did not answer right away, instead playing with the edge of her collar. She pushed herself hard in the pursuit of her studies, missing meals for more important tasks. The habit left her elbows sharp and her eyes bright, but afforded little protection from any stray breeze. Folding her arms against a sudden chill, she shook off Molly’s comment and said, somewhat more sharply than she had intended, “I certainly don’t have to accept any such proposal. That is my prerogative.” 

Molly opened her mouth as if to say something more, then closed it and dipped a quick curtsy before holding out the day dress. “Forgive me my impertinence, Miss Sherlock. It is not my place. May I?” 

Sherlock answered only, “You may.” She held out her arms to allow Molly to dress her, taking a fortifying breath as she did so. She shivered still, though the room held a fire that had been stoked well before the fitting session. “But mind what I said. Finish this dress, but I need no more.”

Her hair had fallen during the fitting, dark and fine with a touch of curl. Sherlock brushed it out of her face impatiently as Molly laced her into her bodice. Even in pieces as it was, laying on the bed with an unfinished hem and none of the intended lace, the dress already hinted at the eye-catching final product. She stepped over to the bed to run her fingers across the finely-woven silk and damask. After a moment, she straightened and spoke over her shoulder. “If nothing else goes as it should, Molly-” 

Pausing in collecting her sewing basket, Molly looked up in query. “Yes, Miss?”

“If nothing else, finish this dress.” 

**

Mycroft did not rise when Sherlock entered his study, ignoring protocol in favour of making it very clear to her who was intended to have the upper hand in their exchange. To offset his rudeness, Sherlock did not sit in the chair obviously prepared for her before his desk. Instead, she went to the window to stare at the gardens. They ignored each other, though Sherlock stole glances at her brother to judge his mood beyond their petty power plays. He was relaxed, which meant he thought he was to break the news of their summer in London. Her brother would be far less relaxed if he had any inkling that she had prepared counter arguments. 

They might have remained in mutual, stubborn silence for hours if their housekeeper hadn’t backed into the room with a tea service not thirty seconds after Sherlock arrived. Looking from one to the other with a shrewd eye, she invited them both to the stuffed chairs set before the fire, placing the service on a table between them. “I’ve brought you both tea, just as you asked, Master Mycroft. Come sit, come sit. Surely you’ll not risk your papers. I’m not interrupting your conversation am I?” 

“Of course not, Mrs. Hudson.” Mycroft heaved himself from his chair, the arms creaking with the strain of supporting his bulk. Sherlock, too, accepted the armistice and perched herself on the seat across from her brother.

Mycroft smiled politely at them and said, “You were more prompt than I anticipated, so I had yet to start.” 

When both siblings had tea in hand and clotted cream within arms reach, they murmured their thanks and Mrs. Hudson retreated into the hall. 

“Must be important.” Sherlock commented, her tone neutral, “If you had Mrs. Hudson herself bring us tea to chivvy us into discussion.” 

“Isn’t she a treasure?” Mycroft responded, equally bland. His lips quirked into a fleeting smile of amusement before he launched them into discussion without further delay. “I merely wished to discuss your plans for the summer. I trust you’ve made none you cannot break?”

“You presume much. I happen to have filled my social schedule from April to August.” 

“August? Really? How out of character for you to have planned so far ahead.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows at her. “I wasn’t going to stay in London nearly that long. With whom did you secure accommodations?”

Sherlock broke first, swearing, “Damn you, Mycroft. I am not debuting this year.”

“It is settled, I’m afraid. Mother has set the date and will send out cards proclaiming your eligibility whether you’re in the city or no. Things will go much easier on you if you cooperate.”

“Mother has no right.” She knew she sounded petulant, but none of this marriage nonsense held any appeal for her. The very thought of such put her in a most vulnerable, most undesirable frame of mind. “No right at all.” 

Unsympathetic, Mycroft selected a tiny square of cake. Sherlock couldn’t decide if he was relishing her discomfiture or simply enjoying his tea. He caught her speculative glance and proceeded to annoy her further. “Mother has every right, Sherlock. She waited until you were eighteen out of deference to your-” He paused to find a better word than the one he was about to use, “Idiosyncrasies, let’s say, but it is time for you to form a matrimonial alliance with someone advantageous for the family.”

“Someone advantageous for you, you mean.” Sherlock slid back in her chair and put her elbows on the rests, both hands wrapped around the teacup she held close to her chest. “I refuse.” 

“That is not an option.” Mycroft dusted crumbs onto a conveniently placed napkin. “A delay will make it all the more difficult for you to find a suitable husband. Each subsequent year of damage must be corrected, and we are already compensating for last year, though it would have meant you debuted somewhat on the early side. I’m afraid you cannot ignore your familial obligations altogether.” 

“There are no reasons why I should be declared eligible at all.” Sherlock narrowed her eyes, “And every reason why I should not.” 

“I see no reasons, Sherlock.” 

Mycroft’s imperturbable affability was maddening, and Sherlock carefully set down her teacup to use her fingers to enumerate the reasons why she would be entirely unsuitable to a potential husband. She held up her index finger. “The foremost reason is no matter what dowry you offer for me to lure in bidders so I may be auctioned off, I will be yoked to an intellectual inferior. Unpleasant as the idea is for me, I assure you that the unfortunate soul so bound to me also must needs put up with my ‘idiosyncrasies’ as you so delicately describe them. I am odd and I shall remain odd. Your suitors’ hook may be baited with both me and a bit of cheese, but I have no illusions. The cheese would need to be quite aromatic to entice any to nibble on such an unpalatable tidbit such as I. Are you - is Mother, more rather - inclined to provide a large enough dowry to offset the not-unsubstantiated rumours referencing my constant ill-humour? I am an incorrigible Katherina, Mycroft, and you cannot possibly expect to find any such willing to wed me.” 

“Money is no object to ensure the happiness of the treasured Holmes daughter, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s patronising tone set her teeth on edge. “You are an asset to the family. We would find a Petruchio for you before the year was out, no doubt. Personality isn’t something looked for in a wife, merely the merging of families. The Holmes family is respectable name and well-connected.” 

“Is beauty looked for, either? I’ve a long face with a sickly cast, thoroughly awkward lips, overlarge and prominent cheekbones, and my hair is entirely too dark to be fashionable without being an exotic. What man could be expected to tolerate this?” Sherlock gestured to her own face. “If personality is irrelevant, surely some other redeeming trait is necessary.” 

“Your bald insistence on your lack of charms is amusing, if misguided.” Mycroft selected a scone, studying the exterior for long enough that Sherlock became impatient. 

She said, “What is so difficult for you to understand, Mycroft? I have no desire to lose the possibility of inheriting my own home should you fail to produce progeny and drink yourself into oblivion. If you insist I must leave your household for my own, I’d as soon take my dowry, establish myself elsewhere, and make a living from my alchemical experimentation.

“Do you need more reasons why I am unsuitable wife? I hold no interest in producing anyone’s heirs - and you need look only to look to Mother to discover what sort of parent I would be. Then too, of course, I have little inclination toward managing a household. What business would I have as chatelaine of a manor? I take meals rarely, request little beyond compounds and sheet music, and care not one whit how others comport themselves.” 

Mycroft took her tirade in stride. “If the matter was up for debate, you would have made a stunning rebuttal, but it is not. Mother is set on the course and your cards will be sent regardless.” 

Sherlock stared at her brother for a long minute, silently and hopelessly fuming. The final decision did not belong to her. 

Deliberately shifting away from the defencive to a more predatory mindset, she poured herself another cup of tea and placed her index finger on the porcelain curve of the handle while it cooled. “It is rather too bad that Mother did not divulge her reasoning to you. I should have liked to know what purpose overrules my complete unsuitability.” 

“What makes you think she did not?” Mycroft enquired. 

Sherlock’s eyes darted around the room, a wealth of information available to her now that she had expanded her focus from her predicament to her environs. She smiled slowly, “Mother knows precisely how hard it is to relinquish control of her estates, and that was to you - her son and heir. I can only imagine how difficult it would be for her to know they were going to a husband bribed to wed me. I daresay I wouldn’t be required to marry if it did not bring her some advantage as well.” 

“Perhaps it is simply that you are required to try? If you can grow our fortunes, you will.” 

“Lovely.” Sherlock murmured into her cup. “But she didn’t tell you that. It is logical, but it’s not her reasoning. You’ve newsprint on your cuff.” 

“Sherlock-” Mycroft warned as he rubbed at his cuff where it peeked from his sleeve, his fingers came away dusted with cheap black ink. 

“You’ve been reading the announcements. Not just in the society papers, but the political ones - more earnest but less polished, and certainly cheaper quality. I should be flattered that you’re seeking an opportunity for your dear sister, but the papers given to you by Mother as her first choice for ‘who’s-who’ research are still beneath your breakfast tray, unfolded but stained by several breakfasts. No jam this morning.” Sherlock flicked her fingers, her lip curling in mild disgust. “Mother also left her usual calling card - you’ve some lavender feathers under the corner of your desk. The maids have convinced you that Mondays are tidying-up day, so she would have visited no sooner than Tuesday and no later than Thursday. I’m going to say- Thursday, then. The patterns for the first of my new dresses arrived with the Friday post, and the nearest seamstress - who has a distinctive signature - refuses to do swifter than one day turnaround, even for the Holmeses.” 

Sherlock scooted forward on her chair, placed her elbows on her knees, and rested her lips on her steepled fingers. She finished, “If Mother saw you and not me, then she wanted you to screen her. If she had told you her entire reasoning, then I could ostensibly talk you out of it. I have before. This way, there’s nothing to argue.” 

Mycroft dropped into a scowl. “This changes nothing.” 

“But I’m right- she gave you no reasoning. I am to marry and that is the end of it. It is what is proper, and we must always strive to be proper.” Sherlock’s disgust grew. “We could be thousands of pounds underwater and in need of an economic match and I should never know.”

“You might have asked Molly.” Mycroft recovered enough to look down his nose at her. “Mother was here Wednesday and told the girl to prove the qualities she’d been hired for. I trust your first dress is coming along well?” 

Sherlock did not answer. 

“We will be travelling to London mid-March, early enough for business, though you’ll have little to do until April. As Mother will not be joining us, Mrs. Hudson will be your escort during the season. Molly is to remain your Lady’s Maid and will also be accompanying us.” 

Mycroft put down his empty cup and rubbed his forehead as if talking to Sherlock pained him. She took some small comfort in his not admitting she was right, though she mis-liked having needled him enough to give her explicit instructions. 

He continued, much to her dismay, “I intend to have you play for some of my associates, so you should make sure to bring your violin.” 

“I shall do no such thing. Not unless I can bring a portion of my laboratory. You will be trying to make me a match, and I absolutely refuse unless I get something out of it. I know very well that the violin would be for you, in no part Mother’s orders.” 

Mycroft accepted her terms with a terse nod, and his agreement sounded pained. “Bring your glassware, then, but not enough to cause damage to the building. And kindly refrain from requesting found appendages from the street urchins.”

“You must think my musical talents to be quite the draw for your political friends to accept a bargain in which I continue my experimentation. You don’t approve of the candidates she has preselected for me to consider, then?” With her small triumph, Sherlock allowed herself a moment to be amused. 

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that with you.”

A smile found its way to Sherlock’s lips, despite everything. “Poor Mycroft, burdened with putting up a solid front and forced to take Mother’s part.” 

“Mrs. Hudson will collect you. I’m busy for the rest of the morning.” Before Sherlock could object, or even comment, Mycroft rang the servants’ bell. “You are dismissed.” 

Sherlock remained silent for half a moment, glancing toward Mycroft’s cluttered desk where incoming letters would rest. There were several, but from here she could not tell from whence they came. She began to ask, “Is there post from Scotland Yar-”

“Go.” 

Abandoning her tea, Sherlock did not deign to reply if he were going to use that tone with her. She ducked out of the room to pass Molly in the hall, ignoring her maid’s greeting. Molly - for her part - avoided eye contact once she caught her mistress’s mood. She sidestepped out of Sherlock’s way before peeking into the study to see what Mycroft wanted, disappearing inside after he responded to her query. 

Mother’s word might be final, for all intents and purposes the Word of God, but Sherlock would not accept a marriage. Her reasoning for Mycroft in why she would be a poor match stood, but there was the added reason that she had no intention of being forced into a marriage bed to be raped with God’s blessing. No matter what other women of her station were willing to put up with to mitigate their circumstances and find what measure of happiness they could, Sherlock flat out refused to be caught by the treacherous net of holy matrimony.

Quickening her steps, she made for her suites. If she were to conquer this ridiculousness before it could interfere too much with her life, she would need knowledge of a culture she thought never to find herself entering. 

Sherlock had letters to write.


	2. Meeting John / Committing to the Idea

The good cheer of the pub crowded John Watson. As he was jostled on either side by young revolutionaries of the university set, he pulled his pint close and eyed the door. He was scrounging for entertainment, distracting himself with the antics of strangers whose youth and enthusiasm left him cold, lonely, and distracted. The press of others enjoying themselves only soured his mood, which was quite the opposite of what he had intended in coming to the pub at all. 

A swarthy young man with hair pulled back into a tail attempted to juggle some of the crockery and laughter rippled through his half-drunk audience. As expected, the sound of shattering dishes followed soon after, earning a slight smile from John and a roar of approval from the boisterous pubgoers. A bit of destruction suited him tonight, and the thought chased the smile from his face. 

It was no use being here. He had arrived back in England from Afghanistan just over a month ago, but the cycles and routines of his younger self were no longer within his nature. The war had made him weary, his injury more-so, and his attempts to recapture the joie de vivre he enjoyed prior to his deployment felt futile. 

To make matters worse, he retained the hollow-cheeked pallor that a prolonged illness bestowed upon those so visited. With dark circles under his eyes, he drifted through his old haunts, a spectre of his former self and half a decade out of touch with the students he would have caroused with in a heartbeat. London had him worried that he might not be able to cobble together some semblance of a life. Not here and certainly not alone. 

A familiar face abruptly resolved among the crowd, waving and grinning in John’s direction. Somewhat bewildered, John returned the wave and that was apparently encouragement enough for the man to seat himself across the table with a melodramatic sigh and offer his hand. The man set his drink down with a thump and said, barely pausing for breath, “Good Lord, Watson, you look like you’ve been on a six-day bender with no room for shuteye. I would have never expected you here. Shouldn’t you be at some gentleman’s club? I heard you’d made Officer, at the very least.”

“Stamford?” John queried, somewhat overwhelmed by the other man’s excitement. Stamford was a former classmate, yes, but the greeting was greatly out of of proportion with the relationship they’d enjoyed prior to the completion of their studies. What startled John more, however, was his intense relief at the man’s appearance. He could not help himself; he’d seen no one from his former life since returning to England. Michael Stamford, with his round face and easy smile, was a more than welcome sight for a lonely man feeling sorry for himself. “I would have thought you had graduated by now, what on earth are you doing here?” 

“Serendipity in its entirety.” Michael said, clinking glasses with John in a toast of greeting. “I was cruelly abandoned by my so-called friends quite late this evening, after I’d begun my summer in London a week early to make the engagement. I see now that fate had it in for us! It is good to see you.” 

“It’s well for me that they cancelled on you. I can’t tell you how glad I am for your company. What brings you to London in the summer? I thought you returned to your family estates after you finished at St. Bart’s.” 

“And am returning to London for - of all things - the season and a bit of wife-hunting.” Michael laughed in mild self-mockery. His mockery, however, turn swiftly to sympathy as he looked John over properly. “Times change, though I haven’t. Not as much as you. What happened?” 

“I got shot.” John said, swallowing hard on the heels of his statement and looking away. He made a half-gesture toward the cane that leaned against his chair. “And then I came down with enteric fever. I’m only just mobile.”

Without comment, Michael offered another toast. “Then here’s to returning from exile. You’ll let me buy you a round, won’t you?” 

Despite himself, John felt his smile return. “If you let me get the next.”

“Let’s making an evening of it.” Michael said, draining his drink and standing to acquire another for both of them. “And we can swap stories. A military type such as yourself will be sure you have some tall tales to share.”

John agreed with a bemused nod and watched him go. Serendipity indeed to find an old friend here, of all places, among the students, the smoke, and the drunken laughter. 

Michael waved from the bar when he caught John watching. John waved back, hope and relief thrumming through his veins. Even just one friendly face made him think perhaps he would be able to rebuild a life in London after all.

**

Even if pressed, Sherlock would never admit that she enjoyed Victoria and Regina’s company. They had all been exchanging letters for the past several months and the pair of them tolerated her well enough that they might nearly be called friends. 

Thus, the invitation for tea at Baker Street and the platter of Mrs. Hudson’s special-occasion cake, requested specifically for the event.

Like a good hostess, Sherlock sat in the room with them while they chatted about upcoming parties and swapped fashion advice. They spoke of trivial inconsequentia, but Sherlock listened - if only with half an ear - and commented where appropriate. Their discourse was educational, if dull. The intricate network of friends and alliances among the ton would have filled a substantial volume and even after months of study, Sherlock had yet to claim mastery over the topic. Every time she found herself with a grasp of cause and effect, a new player would enter the scene and the whole landscape would shift to account for their arrival for the summer.

She also had yet to decide upon a plan to remove herself from the marriage pool that would ensure she would not simply be thrown right back in. She needed to do something drastic, obviously, but short of murdering any would-be husband, most everything else would be circumvented by Mycroft and his connections.

Sherlock had had an idea since the very day her brother had issued her her marching orders in his study, but it was even more of stretch for her than murder. It was a simple enough task, yet it was a course of action to which she was hesitant to commit. The notoriety would be immense, if she could publicise it in the proper manner, and it would assure her an infamous reputation and a coveted spinsterhood. It required planning, forethought, and a bit of a hunt. 

Until such time as she decided upon her course, however, she felt it necessary to involve herself in the farce of her own debut. She made an effort to be companionable, in her own way, and while neither Victoria nor Regina could quite fathom her passion in finding just the right compound to definitively determine the presence of blood, they would only feign squeamishness if there were others for which to perform. 

They sat in the dining room despite the early hour and Sherlock had spread the gossip columns out on the table so as to give herself something to keep her occupied if Victoria began to gush about her most favoured suitor.

If nothing else, the cake was delicious.

“Vicky was just telling me the other day, Sherlock-” Regina began, but Sherlock had ceased to pay attention three or four topics ago. She nodded absently at Regina, who turned instead to Victoria and complained, “Vicky- Vicky she never listens, even if I know it’s something she’d like to hear.” 

Victoria leaned over the papers, stabbed the print with her fork and tugged the stack toward her enough to pull Sherlock’s attention with it. “Anything interesting, pet?” She asked, her smile mocking. “A body washed up on the shore or something even more morbid, perhaps? Stabbings? Suicides? Someone boiled in acid? I know you rather like that one in particular, but it’s so rare.”

“Nothing so intriguing.” Sherlock sat back in her chair, her concentration broken. Waving vaguely at the papers, she curled her lip in dissatisfaction. “It’s all social speculation. Who has been seen with whom, who is warming up to who else, several mentioned debut balls - none of which I have been invited to, might I mention - and everything I have no desire to bother with.”

“Then perhaps…” Victoria drew the word out, causing Regina to squirm impatiently, more affected by anticipation than Sherlock would allow herself to be. Their interplay, however, piqued her curiosity. When Victoria finally continued, she had Sherlock’s full attention. “Perhaps Regina’s news will prove bother-worthy.” 

“News?” Sherlock asked, placing already-blackened elbows on the newsprint. “Do tell.” 

“Well-” Regina glanced at Victoria. 

Emboldened by a nod, Regina launched into what sounded like a prepared speech. “I would like you to stand with me at my ball. Victoria’s too, she asked me to ask you, and while I know you don’t really want to go through the season with us, which you’ve made very clear in your letters, we - I - Victoria - would appreciate it if you’d join us in the receiving line. For both.”

She finished, took a breath, and then went off-script to babble with the exuberance of a friendly puppy. “You don’t have to agree, of course. There would be an awful lot of crowd, especially at Vicky’s, since she has hers scheduled to be The Event and everyone who is everyone will be invited. But you won’t have to shake any hands at all and you won’t need to dance until the reception bit is done, so it might even be best to stand with her instead of just wandering about the dance floor at loose ends - don’t you think Vicky? I thought so - since Victoria’s ball will go ever so late and the line will be ever so long. 

“Say yes, Sherlock. Come with us just this once and we will never pester you to accept any other invitation. Vicky agrees with all of it, just ask her.”

Victoria offered Sherlock a languid shrug of ‘don’t ask me where she gets her energy’.

Sherlock was both surprised and touched. “Why - Victoria Trevor. Regina Musgrave. You’d have me frighten all your guests?” 

“Of course. You may be an odd duck, but your beastly way with people is worth more than a night at the opera house.” Victoria confirmed, her amusement plain. 

Speechless, Sherlock stared at the papers in front of her for a long moment, her mind spinning scenarios as her allies looked on.

If she threw herself wholeheartedly into this nonsense, she would be able to garner enough notoriety to earn a place in the gossip columns for the plan she had been mulling over since February to come properly to fruition. She would be able to launch a scandal of such magnitude that she could ruin herself in the eyes of society. The destruction of her reputation to such a degree as to render her unmarriageable would be a small price to pay for a lifetime of focus on her own pursuits. 

She hid a smile, covering her mouth with her hand. There would surely be many willing and capable participants for such an act if she stepped out among the debauched youths that filled the gossip columns before her.

“I accept.” Sherlock said, looking up from her papers. 

“Oh, but Sherlock, it would be-” Regina began, then fumbled gracelessly to a verbal halt, “Oh- Well, then. Thank you! Yes! It will be delightful! Vicky, help. I didn’t have anything planned if Sherlock accepted.” 

Victoria laughed and took over. “What she means to say is ‘Good, it’s about time you enjoyed yourself.’” She laughed again as Regina swatted at her. 

“That is most certainly not what I was meaning to say, Vicky, and you know it. I’m so sorry Sherlock, ignore her. But- But I’m so excited! We’ll plan everything out just so and you can wear your lavender dress to Vicky’s and your rose dress to mine and-”

Sherlock waved a hand to cut her off, “We’ll plan later, at least for yours. I’ve decided to go ahead with a small debut tea of my own. Tiny, intimate, and you’re both invited. It seems that it wouldn’t do either of you any good for me to appear entirely unknown behind you in the receiving line, so I suppose I must- I must jump in with both feet. I dare say it wouldn’t be fair to you otherwise.” 

For once, both Victoria and Regina had nothing to say. 

Regina’s jaw dropped open until she remembered to click it shut. She found her voice first. “Do you mean it?” She asked, alight with enthusiasm.

“You’re having us on, aren’t you?” Victoria added, eyes narrowing. “You sound awfully cheerful for having thrown off months of indignant correspondence at the mere extension of a single invitation, never mind that it comes from us.” 

“I mean it. Absolutely. I am not having you on. I mean every word. I’ll make my bows, send out my cards, and start beating the bushes for eager men.”

Sherlock’s words in no way allayed Victoria’s suspicions. She hushed Regina when she tried to speak and asked, “You mean to do this properly, then. Use that ‘useless’ wardrobe your brother so thoughtfully purchased for you?”

With only a brief hesitation, Sherlock committed herself to her intended fall from grace. “That is precisely what I mean, Victoria. It would never do for me to waste the kindness you’ve extended.” 

Regina held none of the same reservations. “Excellent! Shall we start planning yours today, then? Do have Mrs. Hudson make some more of this cake, whatever sort it is, I’ve never tasted anything so divine. And you’ll wear your lavender to yours, I’m certain.”

Sherlock and Victoria stared at each other while Regina planned every detail of Sherlock’s tea without input from either, her speculative arrangements both so comprehensive and organised that Sherlock was hard-put to disagree with any of it. 

Victoria broke the stare first, looking to the remaining crumbs on her plate and picking up the last few morsels with her fork. She glanced up at Sherlock in amusement and quirked her lips into a small, knowing smile. “And it’s just because we invited you?” 

“Of course.” Sherlock said, mirroring her expression. Victoria laughed.


	3. John Flirts

When the musicians’ bows lifted from their strings after the final crescendo, a scattering of light applause followed the dancers back to the walls. The ballroom, festooned with white and green, was hot and gaudy and the dancers were all several years too young for John to feel at all comfortable joining the revels unasked. 

Out of his element by virtue of life experience alone, he had not requested introductions to any of the half-dozen young women being feted. Even more telling of the culture mismatch than his reticence, neither had anyone felt the need to introduce themselves to him. After a sweaty hour of leaning on his cane and trying to keep himself upright while his friend danced, he had retreated and hidden. 

Michael found him seated in a conversation niche, alone but for a disapproving dowager who had given up speaking after the third awkward salvo that had left John scrounging for answers to her many questions. No, he had a sister, but she’d come of age far from London. Yes, he’d been invited by Michael, a friend of the Musgraves. Yes, certainly, as a medic in the- Oh, of course, ma’am, but no he was still recovering from a protracted illness. She’d told him she was proud of his service and then thoroughly ignored him.

Taking one look at his friend’s hangdog expression, Michael tugged John to his feet and directed him toward the dance floor. “You can’t sit here all night, invalid or no.” He admonished, “I’ve set you to dance with a friend of mine, if your wind can take it. Sit mid-dance if you need to, but get out there to start.” 

Michael swung him about and said, “She’ll talk enough for the both of you, if you let her.” 

John was forced to abandon his cane as he was shoved into the arms of a cheerful young woman with a curious smile. “Sorry-” He apologised, shooting a glare over his shoulder before turning back to the woman at hand. “So sorry, er-” 

“Miss Regina.” She responded, looking up at him with an open expression of welcome. A petite blond in an apricot dress, she nevertheless managed to prop him upright when his balance faltered. “It’s my cousin’s party, which is why Michael was invited. He was-” 

She interrupted herself to lead him to the dance floor as the music began; it was a slow piece, thank goodness. Even so, she took her time to be careful with him, a gesture noticeable as other couples spun by somewhat more vigorously. 

Miss Regina began again, “He was supposed to introduce us before we danced, but I shall just have to take care of that business now. Regina Musgrave. You are John Watson, I presume? Michael has told me much about you. Said you are a distinguished veteran, and clever.” She spoke airily and did not comment on how their dance lagged as he struggled to lead. She accepted the slowing pace with commendable aplomb, only the growing strain in her smile to indicate she might be feigning ease in his company.

“Thank you. Yes. Watson. Yes.” He said, slow to respond. The combination of trying to remember the proper forms, his manners, and how to breathe without gasping nearly overwhelmed him. These were such formerly simple tasks he now struggled with, and the effort it took galled. 

His health had not recovered entirely - if it ever would - and the deliriums he’d suffered under the fever’s thrall had left their own gaps in his recall. 

“A- a veteran, yes. But not clever, certainly,” he said. He had meant it as a joke, but the words came a moment before he stumbled to avoid stepping on her toes. Again, she caught him. He had thought he had recovered further than this, but his current weakness painted him both clumsy and addled. 

She swallowed and tried again, “I see. Injured in the line of duty. You’re doing very well for all that.” 

The socially lubricating lie on her part had him scrambling for something flattering to offer in return, “Not as clever as you, I mean.” His response made no sense for all he used her own words, so he was not surprised when she shook her head slightly and her smile grew pained. Instead of waltzing into another conversational tangle, however, she remained quiet to let him gather his wits. 

Long enough into the song for him to be heartily embarrassed by his rough manners, he dropped into the dance’s proper pattern. Beneath his hands, he could feel her relax and breathe a bit easier, no longer straining to follow his off-tempo lead. Still, he couldn’t think of what to say to her, only smiling in what he normally considered his most winsome fashion. He felt certain he looked quite the idiot. 

As she took a fortifying breath to support an attempt at awkward-silence-breaking commentary, he interrupted. “You look quite lovely this evening.” 

Whatever she was about to say was lost as she accepted the compliment with a bewildered, “Thank you?” 

He had managed to throw her off completely. Her conversational skills that Michael had recommended were entirely absent in the face of his halting attempts at courtesy. 

As awkward as their words and dance were already, he was also panting with exertion and fighting a growing fatigue. It became increasingly apparently that even a sedate spin about the dance floor was going to be too much for his constitution. Assuming a blank, neutral expression and cursing himself for his poor timing, he spoke into the silence. “I hate to interrupt our time together, but I must sit.”

Regina asked no questions, only touched his lapel on the side of his injured shoulder, and helped him back to his cane and chair. Once she had him seated, she remained a step away while he closed his eyes and took several deep breaths to calm his fever-weakened heart. “I will be quite all right.” He told her, eyes still closed against her pity. He took refuge in the safety of stubborn stoicism. 

“You don’t have to…” She began only to trail off as he coughed. “Here. Let me sit with you.” Without waiting for a response, she perched on the loveseat facing him, the dowager from earlier long gone, and offered her kerchief. “Michael said that you’d had enteric fever. He told me all about what a nasty business it is, though I am afraid I have no direct experience. You must relax, that is what he said, though I fear that he means relaxing in the welcoming arms of a bottle or a woman, which is not - to my mind - relaxing.”

John stared at the tiny blond woman scolding him for trying to do everything right, much as his sister or her friends would in similar circumstances. Then, too, was Regina’s frank and somewhat rude speech. To even use innuendo was something he had never expected of one cleaving so close to the picture of a virtuous lady. He started to laugh, ruefully rubbing his hand across his face.

“That is much better.” Regina seemed to take his laughter as a sign he was following her instructions. She brightened. “I do not know why Michael brought you. You are clearly not up to dancing, barely up to conversing, and I certainly have no idea why you are at a party of this nature at all. I mean no offence, you realise, but making a match with one of my eligible cousins seems a bit beyond your star.” 

“You would be right, I think.” John chuckled ruefully. “Before travelling, I would never have imagined attending any young woman’s debut.” 

John’s gaze followed her gesture and he took in the corseted, coiffured objects of the evenings’ attention. “As graceful and desirable as many of them - many of you - are.” He corrected himself to include his companion without pausing, all the while watching a black-haired young woman with an intricate braid take a turn with Michael. “A man would be lucky to find himself on the receiving end of such favours.” He looked back to find Regina blushing. He tipped his head at her in silent query, but she waved him off. 

“I must dance-” She said, patting her cheeks to cool her blush. “But I will return after with Michael and see about perhaps sending you home early. You have had far too much excitement for one night.” 

John, now ensconced in a chair and able to breathe easier, offered Regina a slow smile. “Michael sounded like he wished me to have more excitement than dance, and that certainly would not be served by going home with him. Care to take his place?”

“Did he so wish?” Her blush rose again at his bold proposition, and her amusement came through as she issued him a firm rejection. “A shame, then, that I am both occupied tonight and know you not at all.” 

“A shame,” He agreed easily, chuckling, his mood buoyed by her blushes. He was in no shape to pursue even if she had been amenable and, of course, she would never be. Miss Musgrave was both a lady as well as surrounded by female relations. Her escorts’ sharp eyes watched for rough-edged veterans such as himself, well able to prevent him from taking advantage of their charges’ ostensible naivete.

He had missed the pleasure of flirting, absent in light of his illness and in the melancholy that followed him as he adjusted to his recovery. 

Then Regina frowned at him, “You-” She began, and he caught the concern in her voice. The ease with which she had returned his flirtation dropped. Her voice held a note of admonition. “Do not do that again.”

John frowned in return, uncertain about what social line he’d apparently crossed. “Do not-?” 

“Suggest bedding someone, even in jest. Not here, especially, unless you wish a scandalised young woman whispering about you to her friends behind her fan. You’ll be marked a rake at best, dangerous at worst.” The words came out somewhat clipped, instructions more than a scolding. “That is not, perhaps, the impression you wish to make, though it will attract a certain sort of young woman. It’s- I may be used to your sort of humour, but your joke taken seriously would be tantamount to social suicide.” 

Regina’s blush now seemed more as if she were embarrassed for him rather than because of him.

“My apologies. Thank you.” John looked away. He had not given thought to how his flirtations would be received. Regina’s assessment, that he was beyond his depth and greatly out of his element, took on a dimension he had not even considered. What for him was a gentle tease could easily be taken as sign that he neither belonged here, despite his invitation, nor should.

Regina was not wrong in taking him to task - causing even a mild scandal with a careless word was not his intention. He did not know how careful he truly needed to be even now. “I should thank Michael for the opportunity to meet you. I shall let you return to your dances.” 

Her expression softened and she said, “You must come to my dear friend Vicky’s debut. I shall make certain she extends you an invitation. There will be scads more people there and it is nearly a month on. You should be able to dance then, hopefully, and I’m sure there will be more people to dance with.” Her smile spread into a rather unladylike grin, a return once more to the over-cheerful young woman he’d been foisted upon at the start, “Oh, do say you’ll come. I’ll be in the receiving line, of course, but Michael will be able to introduce you to ever so many of my friends. Some of them might appreciate your sense of humour.” 

John blinked her in surprise. “If such an invitation were extended, I would be glad to accept.” He had a few doubts about how grateful her friend ‘Vicky’ would be at Regina inviting strays to her extravaganza, but if an invitation did arrive… “Very glad.” 

“I must go.” In a swirl of lace and apricot satin, Regina returned to the dance floor and took up with a short, dignified looking fellow with an Imperial nose. John did not even have the opportunity to say farewell. After watching her dance for a few bars, he returned to distractedly regarding the escorts ranged about the room. Miss Musgrave’s response to his faux pas told him how careful he was going to need to be if he were to attend this ‘Vicky’s’ debut. Still - perhaps going would do him some good. It would, at the very least, pass the time.


	4. Disasterparty / Offer Apology, Receive Porn

At least she wasn’t hosting; Sherlock would have given up before half of the queue had paid their respects.

She stood a step behind Regina while the guests passed through the receiving queue and trampled the rose bushes. The day was cheery and nearly warm, the small park was festooned with fluttering white ribbons, and there was a stiff wind that had everyone clutching their hats as they greeted the debutante. Regina looked radiant as guest of honour, basking in the attention of her debut and smiling so large that Sherlock wondered that she did not hurt her face. 

Sherlock remained grateful to not be forced to interact with any of the guests until after the queue emptied. Since the morning in her dining room, her friends had secured her dozens of invitations and her attendance had been met with various degrees of welcome. After Regina’s mother had introduced her to the Queen, Sherlock’s own small debut tea had come and gone, and she was heartily grateful that she’d only needed to invite Victoria, Regina, and the young man Victoria fancied. 

The rest of the parties had proved fruitless in her quest to bed someone worthwhile and ruin her reputation irrevocably.

If she was to have only one sexual experience in her lifetime, she wanted to remember it fondly. To date, however, she had designated an awful lot of idiots and no true candidates. Becoming discouraged was - in her estimation - a trait for lesser women, so Sherlock persevered, but she was growing impatient. It had been well over a month since she had put her plan into motion and nothing had come of it. There was simply no one within the social circles to which she was expected to remain confined that she saw herself with. For most, their mental capacities were suspect or their distaste for her evident. Some were decent in their way but she had no desire to bed them. 

Such a man in the latter category approached Regina, clicked his heels and bowed over her outstretched hand. A decade and a half older than herself, the dignified Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was pleasant enough and moderately clever, but the essential chemistry between him and Sherlock was lacking. It frustrated her to no end to be unable to identify the missing element. She felt she should know enough about Lestrade to make a guess; he’d been a friend of the family for years and was her primary conduit for news of London when she resided at her estates.

Lestrade was male, however, and eligible, and Mycroft had more than once joked that he was nearly part of the family already with how often he wrote. None of that seemed to matter, as Sherlock could not even bring herself to imagine what they would be like together in that fashion. 

At least he seemed to get on well enough with Regina. Her friend blushed, though the compliment he gave her was whisked away by the morning breeze.

Sherlock evaluated every bachelor and several of the older women as they introduced themselves, but she had encountered the majority already. There were far too many for proper introductions, but a quick glance would often give her more than enough information to cross someone off her list. Cases in point: That man was old enough to be her father and thought of women under thirty as children yet; that one had a mistress, though his clinging wife had no inkling; that one was wearing some sort of contraption under his clothing and around his groin that she found rather alarming; and while the woman in the burgundy summer dress would have been both amenable and experienced she appeared to be in a triad with the ladies behind her - one of whom had a jealous streak a mile wide. 

The woman’s hat made her jealousy very obvious. Sherlock had no desire to entangle herself even a remotely complicated relationship.

All in all, the party presented a depressing show of individuals, though she would never mention that to Regina, nor to Victoria. Both of her friends thought she was participating wholeheartedly in the tedious string of outings and debuts, and Sherlock had done nothing to disabuse them of the notion. 

Two individuals arriving just after Lestrade caught her attention. One was a dandy with a rakish swagger, clean-shaven, dark-haired, and handsome. The other was a young woman with a sharp, perceptive stare. She and Sherlock both glanced toward an hors d'oeuvre tray that wobbled precariously before one of the guests righted it, a small, relatively silent incident nearly lost in the constantly milling crowd. That small sign of intelligence alone warranted investigation.

The wind prevented her from catching their names when they were introduced to Regina. Lestrade collected the pair after their reception and drifted toward the food in their company. Sherlock resolved to meet them as soon as she was released. 

The queue seemed interminable. She began smiling ever more mechanically as she tried to cleave to social protocol. Regina would throw a fit if she walked off before the last in line had said ‘hello’. 

Touching her elbow and leaning in, Victoria murmured, “Oh, buck up. After this is over I’ll help you hide a glass of wine from Mrs. Hudson.” 

The two traded sidelong glances.

“I’m having a fine time.” Sherlock feigned a polite smile. 

“Oh, do shut up.” Victoria’s tone remained low and pleasant. “You stopped fidgeting, which means you’re trying not to look bored.” 

Sherlock could not deny the truth. “I have been occupying myself by examining the guests.” 

“Really? Anyone likely to provide you a little entertainment?” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. 

Sherlock tamped down a flare of panic, only belatedly realising Victoria was intimating the macabre sort of entertainment, not the erotic. Her momentary panic concerned her, but she was unable to decide upon the source: whether she felt some conditioned guilt, or if she feared discovery for purely practical reasons. Cultivating an amused expression, she said, “I’ve been just picking out gossip you might enjoy later, as payment for my sins. It had not occurred to me to be looking for murderers.” 

“How utterly thoughtful. I should like to know anything particularly juicy you discover for me. I’ll use it discreetly, of course. Still - no one left a body this morning to join us for breakfast? You love a good horror.” 

“Maybe one or two.” Sherlock kept her tone carefully neutral. She did not think herself quite as obsessed with the unliving as Victoria seemed to, though the continual return to the topic was understandable. Due to a delivery accident, Victoria had received a shoddily-preserved hand by mistake. An unfortunate incident all around, the hand had been useless by the time it reached Baker Street. “One might simply be superstitious. The other is too good at hiding the bodies. His victims will never be found.” 

“What!?” Victoria neglected to keep her voice down. “I was joking! I am appalled that you can say anything like that with a straight face.” 

Sherlock raised her eyebrows. “Do you want Regina to hear?” 

Victoria clamped a hand over her own mouth and shook her head. Lowering her voice, she demanded again, “Who?” 

“That man over there. I always see him, but he seems to slip away before I can introduce myself.” Sherlock pointed surreptitiously from beneath the bouquet she held. The man was of average height and somewhat slight, with carefully groomed hair and a sloppy sense of dress. He was absolutely not a candidate let alone someone she wanted to be near; Sherlock had never stepped within ten yards of him to find out anything more. 

Victoria searched the crowd. “That one?” 

“Careful.” Sherlock cautioned. “You’re attracting curiosity.” 

“Regina’s aunt must have invited him. I don’t know him at all.” 

“What are you two wittering on about?” Regina asked, turning from her place in the receiving queue as the last of her guests wandered off across the grass toward the tables. “Anything interesting?” 

Victoria cut Sherlock off before she could tell the truth. “Only that Sherlock will have some glorious gossip about everyone here by the time the morning is over.” 

“Oh, don’t tell her anything too horrible, would you Sherlock? She’ll be insufferable for days if you do. She might even write letters and stir up scandal she would never otherwise have a hand in. Do be a dear.” 

“Of course.” Sherlock gave Regina an affectionate pat on the cheek. “You had but to ask. Only things that Victoria might read in the papers.” 

Victoria began to protest, “Sherlock-” 

“I promised.” Truth be told, she was relieved to be rid of their previous topic. A corpse surely counted as ‘too horrible’. It had gotten so that Regina would chastise Victoria for even mentioning the hand. Sherlock directed their collective attention toward the festivities, casually watching the milling guests for another glimpse of her suspected murderer. “And might I add that we are missing a party? Surely we cannot stand here all day without becoming the object of gossip ourselves.” 

“Oh!” Regina exclaimed, “I mustn’t miss a thing! Both of you can do what you like, but I shan’t stand here doing nothing.” Regina turned and caught her aunt’s attention with a raised hand. Stepping from the receiving dais, she abandoned her friends without a backward glance. 

“Regina- but- Sherlock-” Victoria’s protests were no use. Once Regina began to make the rounds, they had no claim on her time until after the very last of her guests had gone. Sherlock often questioned whether or not she could even hear them when she was busy being social. As they watched, Regina joined her aunt and the dignified older woman pulled her into conversation with a clutch of political types. 

Sherlock turned an arch look on Victoria. “We mustn't blame her. I’m sure you’ll be ten times as bad at your own debut.” 

“That is only because there will be ten times the guests.” Victoria said, wrinkling her nose. She slanted a somewhat disgruntled look at Sherlock and asked, “Was there anyone to whom you have not yet been introduced?”

“Two, with Lestrade.” 

They set off.

Victoria led Sherlock through a maze of people and tables. They found Lestrade with a glass in one hand, a fork in the other, and deep in conversation with the gentleman that Sherlock had come to examine. As Sherlock approached, the men did not halt their conversation and she caught snippets of ‘dead’, ‘Scotland Yard’, and ‘two days, at the very least, but we won’t know for sure until the dissection.’ Sherlock strained to hear, interest piqued. Lestrade’s letters came as frequently as before even though she was now living in London, but now Sherlock knew just how many murders the man neglected to mention. 

The woman from before looked up at the first rustle of impending distraction and met Sherlock’s eyes. 

The moment of connection was brief, and the woman followed it up with a look blatantly raking Sherlock from her hemline to the top of her piled curls. The rosy hue of Sherlock’s dress apparently displeased her; she curled her lip and looked away. The woman then reached a hand under the table and the gentleman she accompanied turned to look first at her, then at Sherlock. 

Lestrade‘s smile of welcome nearly made up for the offencive lack of curiosity on his companions’ part, but the other two’s responses to her were more than enough for Sherlock to dismiss them. They were obviously a couple, and the emerald and gold necklace that encircled the woman’s throat was half of why the man was paying any attention to her at all. She readied herself to leave, but Victoria had missed the byplay and began introductions regardless. “Sir Lestrade! Would you care to introduce us to your companions?” 

Lestrade, however, had seen Sherlock’s attempt at escape. “I don’t see why not?” He watched her for her reaction.

Victoria and the other two missed the unspoken addendum: _‘But perhaps Sherlock might?’_ Another reason why she had no desire to bed Lestrade: he had the infuriating habit of expecting Sherlock to respond to indirect social cues. Just because she could read them didn’t mean she had any patience for them. Sherlock schooled her features to ‘politely interested’ and ignored his regard. 

Lestrade snorted softly, then went ahead and introduced his table-mates. “This is young Mister Anderson and Miss Donovan.” Each dipped their head in acknowledgement. 

Anderson spoke first, offering his pleasantries by rote. “Miss Trevor. Miss Holmes. _Pleasure._ ” Sherlock evaluated him more closely, now forced into an interaction by the strictures of polite society. 

He needed to shave more often; his facial hair fell short of his aspirations, scraggly and unkempt. Whatever model beard defined his ideal seemed an overambitious goal. The result was a scruff at odds with his otherwise near-immaculate appearance. The scratch marks beneath his left ear were curious enough to arrest her attention, as was the mismatched pair of cuff-links. His double-breasted jacket was excellent quality. His draper had managed to make the look suit him despite his youth. 

If she remembered, she would ask after his clothier. Molly would probably enjoy trading tips with such a talented young man.

Continuing, Anderson spoke directly to Sherlock, “My uncle has told us quite a lot about you, Miss Holmes, though I’m more acquainted with your reputation through shared circles than by anything he might have told us.” 

Sherlock flicked a glance at Lestrade, who appeared on the verge of scolding the young man. He well deserved it, citing her reputation in their mutual circles as if it were already the subject of lascivious gossip. If this was his attempt at humour, she remained unamused. “Your uncle is?”

“Not here.” Anderson replied coolly. Not humour, then.

Lestrade objected, offended on Sherlock’s behalf. “Said uncle would birch you for your manners.” 

“I’m not a child.” Anderson complained, his words accompanied by a dismissive eye-roll that made Sherlock raise her eyebrows, but Miss Donovan put her hand on Anderson’s forearm and he subsided. While the gesture was a telling indicator of their relationship, Sherlock could not as easily divine why Anderson seemed predisposed to dislike Sherlock. Regardless, the feeling was mutual.

“I would rather your actions spoke for themselves than require you to protest their validity.” Sherlock earned a disapproving noise from Victoria with her retort. However, approval was not particularly high on her list of concerns at the moment. “What have you heard about me?” 

A jot less deference and Sherlock’s question would have become both a demand and a faux pas. As it was, Victoria curled her fingers around Sherlock’s elbow. The light touch was a reminder and a warning to pick her battles wisely. 

Donovan replied in Anderson’s stead, “That your marriageable status is but a ruse for some ulterior motive,” She said, her words opening a hollow pit in Sherlock’s gut. Her one hope was that Donovan was referencing Mycroft’s political scheming rather than anything she might be implicated in directly. However, Donovan continued in a low, confident, and entirely too self-righteous tone, “I can barely credit the rumours, now that I’ve met you. You do not appear to be a wanton.” 

It was too soon for such gossip to start. Far, far too soon. Sherlock still needed to recruit a suitable partner and if her reputation became too tarnished, her access to the appropriate social gatherings would vanish. Sherlock narrowed her eyes, “And wherefore would I dare flaunt such a disregard of my peers’ esteem?” 

“It is common knowledge that you are an odd sort. Morbid-” Donovan’s gaze flicked to Victoria. Sherlock felt Victoria straighten beside her, tightening her grip on Sherlock’s elbow. 

Of course Victoria would purchase her cachet among their set with gossip. Unanticipated, but not surprising.

“- and overly interested in the specifics of any number of virile young men. You don’t seem to have the same criteria as the rest of us, so we speculate,” Donovan finished, a faint, smug smile on her lips. 

Well, that was clear enough. Sherlock lifted her chin and considered. Her defencive options were limited. She could laugh off the accusation, protest, or look away and refuse to answer at all. Each had their weaknesses and all could be taken as proof of the rumour’s veracity. The most efficient method of evasion in this instance was to take the offencive.

With calculated condescension, she said, “Perhaps you are more like to assume the worst of someone since you, yourself, are courting scandal. Does your lover have an influence on your temperament?” Sherlock asked, looking pointedly at Anderson, “He seems inclined to believe the worst of me.”

Anderson stood, drawing curious stares from the other guests as he knocked against the table and rattled the flatware, “How dare you insinuate-” 

Lestrade reached out to calm his breakfast companion. Donovan simply stared, mouth half-open in disbelief.

Sherlock took a deep breath through her nose and tightened her jaw. None of those present had ever seen her in high dudgeon before, and so had no warning of what was to come. Even Lestrade had never seen a flaying.

“Don’t ‘how dare you’ to me when you are challenging my virtue.” Sherlock pointed at the Lady Donovan’s left glove and Lord Anderson’s trousers in quick succession. “I am not the one whose glove snagged upon your trouser fixtures, leaving a small rent in one and several tell-tale threads on the other. Nor did I replace one of your cuff-links with one of my earrings from the set picked out to match the stones in my dress.”

As an aside to Donovan, she offered, “Next time, dear, if you’ve given away your jewelry, don’t replace it with such garish costume pieces, it only draws attention to the fact that you’ve mismatched your wardrobe.” 

The insult earned more of a protest from Anderson than Donovan. His gaze flicked proprietarily toward the necklace and he half-raised his hand before he transferred his glower back to Sherlock. She re-evaluated her assessment of the necklace and their matching earrings. Not costume jewelry, but a gift. An expensive and inappropriate gift at that. 

Sherlock continued, ignoring Anderson’s distress, “I also think that I would not arrive in the same hired carriage no matter how discreet the driver. You’ve still a rash, Miss, along your upper lip from your Mister’s ghastly attempt at a moustache, and might I suggest not using your nails on his cheek in your ardour, especially when you are wearing gloves with all those tricky little buttons. They never pull on quite right unless one is assisted by someone who knows how to put clothes back onto a woman.” 

Silence had spread outward from the table as she spoke, overriding all other conversations one by one. Sherlock noticed, but most of her attention was focused on turning her rumoured scandal back on the couple who had been so gauche as to air their assumptions on her character in public. 

When Sherlock took a breath to redouble her assault, Victoria used her hold on Sherlock’s arm to forcibly drag her from the table and toward the hedges that bounded the event grounds. As they left, there was a small commotion behind them and a resumption of the private conversations she had interrupted with her tirade. She couldn’t hear what they were saying partially because the wind was in the wrong direction, but also because Victoria was making angry, distracting noises as they marched away from the main bulk of the crowd. 

Once out of earshot of everyone but the servants, Victoria rounded on Sherlock and took her to task. “What in God’s name were you doing back there?!” 

“Precisely what they intended to do to me, only with more substance and less pleasure.” 

“Sherlock!” Victoria sounded genuinely appalled. “That is absolutely terrible. Even if it was the truth-” 

“It was, I assure you.” 

“-even if it _was_ , it will not help. You’re going to be talked even- even more.” Victoria looked away.

“More than- what? What, Victoria? More than the gossip with which you have primed their tongues?” Sherlock spoke more sharply than she intended and was rewarded by Victoria lifting her shoulders defensively and flinching away. 

It came as an unwelcome surprise to Sherlock that the betrayal stung at all, let alone enough to influence her emotions.

After a long pause with neither of them offering regrets or retractions, Sherlock said, “I have no desire to play such a juvenile game with these people. I refuse to apologise for defending myself.” 

Victoria took a breath, then faced Sherlock once more to match her glare for glare. “But- you could have used charm. Or wit. Or something else that doesn’t mean destroying someone’s life.” 

“I doubt very much either of them need worry about scandal.” Sherlock dismissed the idea with a careless wave. “My meagre words, at best, mean a week apart before everyone forgets all about it. I should make no impact on their most-likely fruitful future together. That’s not ruin, not even the start of it.” 

“Maybe.” Victoria said. “Or maybe they never intended to marry each other and you truly have ruined Miss Donovan’s chances for good. I do not understand you, Sherlock, not at all. Why would you do such a thing?” 

“Ruined that easily?” Sherlock mused. If the hint of scandal was enough to take someone off the market completely, she wouldn’t even need to be caught. If she could not find a suitable partner by the end of the season, fabricating one could very well be an adequate solution. It would be a disappointment to ruin her reputation without the complementary experience, but it would not be the end of the world. Avoiding marriage was the ultimate goal, after all.

“Yes, that easily.” Victoria spat, and Sherlock raised her eyebrows at her friend’s vehemence. Victoria avoided her eyes and said, “Just- Just leave. I won’t have you darkening Regina’s day.” 

That certainly caught Sherlock’s attention. “I warn you, Victoria, do not take a self-righteous stance with me. I may have performed here today, but you set the stage.” 

“It was innocent gossip. We talk about everyone like that. No one could have expected your reaction.”

Unmollified, Sherlock curled her upper lip and said, “It is acceptable to innocently gossip about someone’s reputation, but not to ruin it in earnest, I see. If I had responded meekly or perhaps participated in a subtext-laced repartee, would that have salved your conscience? Do I need to play these games to meet with your approval?” 

Victoria covered her face with her hands. “Leave, Sherlock. Regina doesn’t deserve a row at her party.” 

Turning away, Sherlock said, “We will be friends again, but I do not feel particularly forgiving at the moment.”

“Funny, that. I am not at all pleased with you, either.” 

Neither of them had anything else to say that would not reopen the argument. They remained silent as Sherlock gathered her things, gave her regrets to Regina on the excuse she felt ill, and found Mrs. Hudson with a cup of tea and a slice of cake chatting with a table-full of older women in servant attire. 

Mrs. Hudson escorted Sherlock from the park and out to their carriage in only the loosest sense. Taller and with longer legs, Sherlock quickly outdistanced her housekeeper and reached the street far enough ahead that she became impatient and began to walk home. She strode down the cobbles, unmindful of the stares she garnered. 

Turning the corner, she halted next to a street-lamp and attempted to compose herself. 

“That could have gone better.” Sherlock scolded herself, sinking her gloved fingers into her curls. “Far better. I shall have to reconcile with Victoria.” 

This was not the end of her search. She had only made a fool of herself, nothing more. Her plans were damaged, but not irreparably. 

Calming at last, she could admit that a corner of her heart was bruised. As much as she kept herself above and outside of the modern milieu, she was still subject to the vulnerability of caring. Victoria had graduated in Sherlock’s esteem over the last month, from ally to friend, and Miss Donovan’s revelation had hurt. 

Sherlock swore. “Avoiding all this nonsense was my goal in the first place. How did I end a part of it regardless?” 

“Your granny is looking in the other direction for you, Lady.” A boyish voice piped up from a step behind her, his street accent so thick she had to translate it into proper English. “Thought you ought to know.” 

Sherlock found a grubby urchin rocking on his heels, hands in his pockets. About ten at the eldest, he had the bright eyes of an inveterate opportunist. While he was confident enough to bother a well-dressed society woman in the street, he remained just out of arms reach. 

She had noticed him, dismissed him as irrelevant, and walked right by. Now, however, she focused on his dirt-smudged, freckled little face. 

He was filthy, smelled horrendous, and gave Sherlock an idea. “There’s a shilling in it for you if you tell her to turn the carriage round and try this street instead.” Flashing her a grin, the boy took off to alert Mrs. Hudson that she would never find Sherlock going the way she was. 

She watched the boy run until he turned the corner, slipping between two strolling gentleman carrying newspapers. The men each patted the pocket nearest his passage, the reassurance that their wallets remained untouched an unconscious gesture. 

Sherlock took her bearings while waiting for Mrs. Hudson and the carriage. The street was crowded with morning traffic, the city humming along without paying its betters any mind. She caught the monogrammed rear of an opulent carriage disappear through an archway, curious because of the direction - toward the train station - and the removable academic trappings that decorated the exterior. Beyond that particular anomaly, however, the busy street held the usual denizens going about their daily tasks. 

After the short time it took for Sherlock to become once more grounded and aware of her surroundings, the hansom rounded the corner. Mrs. Hudson had the door half-open. The urchin clung to side. She had a shilling out and ready for the boy for when he dropped to the street. He dipped his head in thanks and darted back out of reach as soon as she had placed it in his hand. 

“What is your name, boy?” She asked, crouching down. The rose fabric of her skirts acquired a layer of soot and grit as it brushed the street. It was awkward to breathe half-bent over, her stays compressing her ribs, but she was not interested in frightening the child and this conversation was best done on his level. “Would you know any friends of yours who would also like to earn a shilling a day?” 

“Wiggins, Lady.” He sounded a bit breathless. “And I do.” 

Sherlock smiled. Her highbrow, tedious method of finding a quality individual to sleep with had not been working. Perhaps it was time she used a more direct method - or at least a method which did not depend on a woman she currently could not call her friend with certainty. 

She kept her voice low so that Mrs. Hudson would not hear. “Wiggins. Would you report to me on men of character among those of a quality just below the level of the ton? I have need of a suitable match and I am afraid that I have not found any such suitable.”

“You wouldn’t, Lady. Not many in your parties that would lend a bloke a pence. As like to kick me, if you’ll pardon.” 

“Just so.” Sherlock tilted her head to indicate the street they stood beside. “Do you know 221 Baker Street?” At the boy’s affirmation, she continued, “Come round and ring and I shall provide you a salary. If there is one of you or your mate’s suggestions that proves valuable, I shall reward them with a guinea.” 

Wiggins whooped, startling Mrs. Hudson from where she leaned out of the hansom to eavesdrop on their exchange. “I’ll tell ‘em. More’n happy to help,” he said, before becoming all business. His first question made Sherlock smile. ”What are you looking for, exactly, besides ‘good’? I can tell you who isn’t a rotter, but can’t but think you are a mite pickier than ‘not a rotter’.” 

That was the question, wasn’t it? Sherlock took as deep a breath as she could before replying. If she knew what she was looking for, she would have found it already.

“Look for-” She began, then hesitated. She had to give the boy something beyond ‘I shall know him when I see him’. 

“Look for a man who I would never otherwise meet, is intelligent enough not to make a fool of himself while also eschewing the arrogance of the clever. He may have a dubious reputation that bars him from participating in the season’s events. I would like to look at the unusual men, Wiggins. Can you find some of those for me?” 

“All sorts in London, miss. You don’t mind if the list gets long, then?”

“I’m searching for a very particular man, Wiggins. The list is already long - filled with the supposed best men in the country from all these parties - and I have not yet found him. The longer the better.” 

Their bargain struck, the boy took off at a run. 

Sherlock returned to a solicitous Mrs. Hudson. Her second search was now begun, and she hoped that it proved more fruitful than the last wasted month. 

**

Sherlock arrived on the Trevor manor doorstep as early as courtesy allowed on the day after Regina’s garden party. She had decided that a reconciliatory call would be the best course of action.

When a footman led her into the parlour, Victoria stood at the fireplace in a simple dress and turned a small cream-coloured card over in her hands. The footman had accepted Sherlock’s card without word, though Victoria now appeared to have no idea what the card signified. 

Sherlock frowned and paused upon the threshold. She was trying to follow protocol as well as she was able despite the fact that this was the first she’d called upon anyone since arriving in London. That Victoria - who no doubt had baskets of cards garnered through mutual visits - looked nonplussed was enough to give Sherlock pause. 

Victoria looked up when she entered and the expression on her face grew more perplexed. “Sherlock! Even holding your card I cannot believe it.” 

“Victoria,” Sherlock plucked at the tips of her gloved fingers, pulling them off as she spoke, “Mrs. Hudson has agreed to wait in the hall while we chat. I’m afraid I have said some things that I regret.” 

“Oh.” Victoria said only, the confusion falling away. She folded her arms beneath her breasts. 

The dress Victoria wore was far from appropriate for receiving a social call, several years out of fashion and an inch too short. Sherlock’s momentary hesitation evaporated and she suppressed a smile. From the abandoned coal hopper and hearth brush still present, she had interrupted the daily motions of the manor, though those motions had apparently begun far later in the day than was usual. Victoria’s hair was still in the braid she had slept in. Or, rather, likely hadn’t slept in judging from her exhaustion. 

The events of yesterday morning had played out for Sherlock as obstacles to be dealt with, but the stresses of the day seemed to have taken their toll on Victoria’s peace of mind.

“You look terrible.” Sherlock said, folding her gloves and tucking them into her purse. She took a seat. Victoria was in no state to offer one. “Did you get any sleep at all last night?”

“I feel terrible.” Victoria abandoned the fireplace and seated herself on a couch. “You never call on anyone. Ever.” 

“This seemed an occasion to make an exception.” 

“Why?” 

A reasonable question. “I find no reason to let what is between us now linger longer than necessary. This was as soon as I could see you.” 

Victoria covered her face with her hands and took a calming breath. “So where do we start?” 

Reviewing her mental notes, Sherlock launched into her prepared speech, only to have Victoria wince at the first word. Halting to take a good long look at her friend, Sherlock found that her behaviours were decidedly different than those displayed yesterday when they parted. The anger Victoria had expressed was nowhere to be found. 

“Why don’t you tell me what is wrong?” She asked instead, “I arrived assuming you were furious over my treatment of Miss Donovan and that I would be required to mouth polite apologies.” Her script had been intended to soothe Victoria’s ire, admit to a wrongdoing that she cared nothing about, and ensure her place at the upcoming ball. None of that now seemed appropriate. 

“You-” Victoria rubbed her face, “You thought that I would be angry? That’s rich. You took those two apart. Methodically. Without even raising your voice. You give me secrets at a glance, Sherlock, for my amusement, not caring how I will use them unless Regina tells you to be mindful.”

The reason for her friend’s sleepless night became clear. “I frightened you.”

“I hurt you. I expected you to lash out at me, too, and you know so much more about me.” 

Their conversation was interrupted by a brief knock at the door. Victoria took a moment to collect herself before she called out her assent. A nervous maid brought tea. The pause suited Sherlock. She did not like where the conversation was heading.

As soon as the door shut once more, Sherlock stood and crossed the room to sit on the couch with Victoria. She took her friend’s hands in hers. “You did not hurt me,” Sherlock lied.

“Even if that were true, I am still sorry.” Victoria said, staring down at their clasped hands. “Not because you might have retaliated, but because it was rather a rubbish thing to do.” 

Sherlock squeezed Victoria’s hands and tried to end the conversation, more than ready to be done with the whole matter. “Then apology accepted. I give my word that I shall never divulge your secrets. Rest easy and let us be friends again.”

With Sherlock’s words, Victoria relaxed and squeezed back. “Yes. All right.” Her anxieties somewhat eased, she took a breath and tilted her head toward the service the maid had brought. “The tea is getting cold.” 

They drank together for several minutes, chatting about the upcoming ball and other less fraught topics before Victoria suddenly pushed to her feet and excused herself. Sherlock used the respite to pull her gloves on once more. She was ready to leave by the time Victoria returned, hiding something in the fold of her skirt. 

“Here-” Victoria thrust a bundle of papers at Sherlock and proceeded to blush most alarmingly. Sherlock raised her eyebrows as she took the bundle.

“A peace offering. Take it, do. It’s- It’s- Oh, just look. You might not have appreciated Miss Donovan’s comments yesterday, but you do stare and we do notice. And if you are considering men for maybe less than a virtuous marriage, so are the rest of us. There- there is proof. Now you have it and you might enjoy it and we’re even now.” 

Sherlock had never heard Victoria babble like Regina often did. She examined the gift that had prompted such extraordinary behaviour. “These are-” 

“We all consider what we might do if an opportunity came along, Sherlock, though few of us do it as seriously as you seem to do everything. Miss Donovan was out of line to say that’s all you wanted - she all but called you a strumpet. Her rudeness was inexcusable. Just- I wanted you to know that it really was innocent. We were confessing our own hot-blooded impulses and you just came up naturally.”

Flipping through the pages, Sherlock found the bundle to be half a dozen journal publications. Their names contained various sexual innuendos and the illustrations alone told her exactly what sort of stories they accompanied. A tension she had not realised she carried relaxed within Sherlock’s chest. With a small smile, Sherlock said, “Thank you.”

She would not make this more embarrassing for Victoria by commenting further, especially when she found herself honestly grateful. Sherlock of course knew the mechanics of what she was seeking, but access to further research had proven tricky. This would be precisely what she needed. 

Victoria returned Sherlock’s smile and then glanced at the door. “I will most likely have other callers, though hopefully not before I’ve gotten properly dressed.” 

Sherlock took the hint and made her goodbyes. Passing the maid in the hall, she collected Mrs. Hudson, shuffling her skirts to hide the papers. She would have to put them somewhere that Mycroft would not casually discover and find some time alone to read them. They would, hopefully, prove most educating.


	5. The Grand Ball

Sherlock had not been prepared for Victoria’s debut ball. For one, it was the first she had worn her purple evening gown, held in reserve for the occasion. The cut and fit was far different than her day dresses, their folds and pleats fashionably arranged thanks to Molly’s talent. The gown possessed a high collar, a corset that lifted her breasts, and amethyst-studded embroidery designed to catch the light from the chandeliers. While none of the elements were new individually, all together they felt heavy and constricting. Sherlock was forced to modify how she moved, which left her very aware of her own body.

For another, there were a great many people invited. Victoria’s grandmother had sent out a number of invitations an order of magnitude greater than the hostess of the last ball Sherlock had attempted, and that had been counted rather large. From where she stood at the head of the receiving queue, Sherlock could look into each of hundreds of faces as they approached. 

She had not dreamt it would, but the attention pleased her. She drew eyes enough to satisfy her oft-deprioritised vanity.

The ballroom belonged to Victoria’s grandmother on her father’s side, purchased with the riches he’d found in the Australian gold fields. The architecture and decor reflected a _nouveau riche_ idea of wealth, the design flaunting the funds that the Lord Trevor had to back both his title - gained through advantageous marriage - as well as the purchase of the property in London. 

Grand windows lined one wall and opened onto a garden where guests could retreat to escape the heat of the crowded dance floor. The dais on which Sherlock stood was large enough for both Victoria and her grandmother (their hostess), as well as Regina, Victoria’s mother, another pair of Victoria’s good friends, and Sherlock herself. Surrounding them and nearly crowding them from the platform, were dozens of bouquets sent by well-wishers from all over the city. 

Sherlock had not been prepared at all, but she had to admit that she was, oddly enough, enjoying herself. 

The festivities had only just begun. The queue stretched the entire length of the ballroom and out the doors while a small orchestra played popular pattern dances to encourage the more punctual arrivals. Even with the speed at which Victoria was fielding pleasantries, she and her attendants would be here until well after midnight. Only then would the party begin in earnest. In the meanwhile, Victoria smiled and accepted compliments with an easy social grace that Sherlock found admirable, if foreign.

Regina kept elbowing Sherlock and jutting her chin at men as they walked through the door. “Have you met that one? What about that one?” Her inexhaustible enthusiasm kept Sherlock from boredom. It became somewhat of a game: Sherlock would respond to each query with a small tidbit she had gleaned from meeting the man, if she had, or a detail she could discern from a distance, if she hadn’t. The delighted bounce that Regina gave to each response made the evening pass that much more swiftly. 

Sherlock began to grow impatient after the end of the queue came into view. Prior, she had focused on distracting herself, but anticipation took over as soon as she could count the dwindling few still required to congratulate Victoria. With each exchange between hostess, debutante, and guest, Sherlock found herself craving the solitude of the darkened garden a little more. Regina, oblivious, continued to ask Sherlock whether or not she had met so-and-so and whether she would like to be introduced when they were done. Answering mechanically, Sherlock’s thoughts wandered so that when Regina stopped asking, Sherlock didn’t notice. 

After a span of relative quiet, a particularly exuberant elbow disrupted Sherlock’s train of thought on whether the compound she’d ordered would arrive tomorrow or the day after. She looked down at Regina and discovered a bright smile on her friend’s face.

Now that she had her attention, Regina exclaimed, “It’s Michael Stamford! You remember Michael.” 

“Victoria cannot stop mooning over him. We shall never see her tonight, between the guests and Michael’s presence.” Sherlock’s response came out more terse than she had intended, her thoughts still elsewhere, but Regina just giggled at her. 

“He has brought his friend. Victoria will be sure to set you up to dance with him, I feel certain.” She leaned in and spoke behind her gloved hand, though Sherlock doubted if anyone was paying to attention to them. “Did I tell you he offered to take me home with him after our first dance? He is almost scandalous.” Sherlock’s expression didn’t change, still distracted as she extricated herself from her mental calculations on weather and shipping. Regina swatted her on the shoulder with her bouquet. “Oh, come on. That was my first bit of strange gossip I could give you all night and you don’t even say anything. Spoilsport.” 

Sherlock gave herself a quick shake to clear her head and focus on the present, “Yes, sorry. Propositioning you, really? How vulgar.” 

“Oh-” Regina thought about that for a moment. “No. No, I thought he was rather charming. He’s just there, by Michael.” 

Seeking Michael in the receiving queue was easy enough because Regina, without a subtle bone in her body, pointed straight at his guest. She said, “His name is John Watson, though you’ll have to let Michael introduce you for official if you’d like to dance with him. He’s a bit short for you, I suppose, but he did not step on my toes once for all that he was barely able to stand upright.” 

“But that was a month ago,” Regina added helpfully, “at my cousin’s party. He looks quite fine now.” 

Sherlock watched the two men as the queue, more slowly for being watched, emptied. They were near to last and their pace gave Sherlock a goodly amount of time to study this ‘John Watson’.

She did not dismiss this man as quickly as she had the rest of the _ton_. Michael had never struck her as one for inviting others to accompany him on his escapades. The man was a roguish individual who had lost his edge from his years in the country performing medical duties for his estate. A man like that would not be likely to extend an invitation to a ball hosted by the object of his affection. Michael, according to her observations, would see other men more as rivals than companions. 

Another point in his favour was that Regina had remembered him. Regina was putting put off making a decision on which of her many suitors charmed her most for as long as possible, leaving her choice until the tail of her third season, if only because she loved the parties. For a man, especially one in whom she seemed uninterested in the long term, to stick in her mind for long enough to tell Sherlock was absolutely remarkable. 

“Have Michael introduce us for a dance.” Sherlock told Regina, keeping her eyes on the pair as they offered their greetings to Victoria and moved off. They disappeared among those who clustered near the dais waiting to speak to the debutante once she was free to mingle. 

Sherlock’s curiosity was well and truly caught. 

There was a moment of chaos after the last guest bowed over Victoria’s hand and the young men waiting to sign her dance card or plight their undying love came forward all as one. Sherlock and Regina had to elbow their way free without being seen to leave bruises. 

Victoria’s ballroom had never been intended to hold quite this many people. The Trevor fortune might be able to provide a well-stocked refreshments table, but it couldn’t add square feet to a fifty year old floor plan mid-season. Sherlock managed to knock over one of Victoria’s more impressive floral gifts with her skirt, but eventually she fought her way to a clear space between two pillars, Regina in her wake. After taking a moment to breathe, Regina dragged Sherlock toward where they had last seen Michael and John disappear. 

They found the two men claiming a chair in one of the alcoves along the edge of the ballroom. Sherlock let the introductions, courtesy of Michael, wash over her without listening. She was too busy observing the man who had already draw such attention from her meagre circle of friends. 

As Regina had said, he was shorter than she. If he did not still retain the air of one just recovered from a deadly illness, he would be a broad-shouldered, robust individual, brown as a nut from exposure to some fiercer clime than England’s. He carried a cane upon which he leaned heavily, and he glanced back at the chair behind him several times as she approached. His hair had been cropped recently into a military cut and his cheeks held a slight residual pinkness from a recent shave. 

He coughed politely into his sleeve, drawing her attention to the too-large nature of the garments he was wearing. Either he had lost weight since last he had worn them or - Sherlock’s eyes flicked briefly toward Michael - he had borrowed them and had them cheaply tailored. Borrowed, then, she decided as John plucked at his lapel where the darkened fabric suggested a removed monogram. He extended his hand to properly greet her, pulling his cuff from his sleeve and revealing a slight rip sewn with a suture stitch.

While she had been studying him, her subconscious mind had informed her in no uncertain terms that he was handsome, an observation that ranged far enough into the subjective to startle her. He possessed a square jaw and an intelligent gaze, and he kept a grip on his cane that whitened his knuckles. Oddly, he did not lean to favour an injury as the cane and his grip might suggest.

She seized his extended hand with her own too abruptly to be appropriate, unable to tamp down enough on her curiosity to be proper.

Now that she stood directly before him, her gloved fingers firmly within his grasp, she felt her cheeks warming.

Her reaction to his presence baffled her. Chemistry, Sherlock understood. The chemistry of attraction, however, was another matter altogether. His body language had shifted when she had come close enough to touch, growing tense and focused as his pupils dilated despite the brilliance of the chandeliers.

Sherlock’s breathing quickened and she became very conscious of the corset she wore. She understood, academically, what his response to her signified, but theory was a far cry from reality. All the theory in the world had not prepared her, just as learning the nature of the simple reaction between potassium and water as a child had not prepared her for the resulting explosion. Sherlock focused on John’s blue eyes and a rare, genuine smile lit her expression. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Holmes.” John said, pressing his lips to the back of her glove in a bold gesture that set her heart beating all the more swiftly. 

Sherlock said the first socially acceptable thing that came to mind. “I trust your return from Afghanistan did not aggravate your illness, Doctor Watson. I should be loathe to hear that your homecoming was marred by a relapse into fever.” 

“Ah, no. My recovery has been steady?” Still half-bowed over Sherlock’s extended hand, he looked toward his friend for clarification, but Michael only laughed. Regina hid her smile behind her bouquet, pretending to smell the flowers. Returning his eyes to Sherlock’s, he asked, “How did you know?” Sherlock retrieved her hand, breaking their overlong contact, and John returned to leaning on his cane.

Though his voice had held no wariness, only curiosity, she did not choose to explain and risk a poor reaction. Instead, she lifted her chin and told him, “I shall tell you if you agree to dance with me.” 

Regina mushed her face into her bouquet, drawing more attention to herself than not trying to hide her laughter would have. When the rest of them looked at her, she only laughed harder. Pulling the flowers from her face, she choked out, “Victoria needs me,” before fleeing back toward the knot of eligible bachelors surrounding the guest of honour.

The interruption did not distract Sherlock long, not now that she had found a possible candidate to participate in her scheme. Once Regina had fled their group, Sherlock smiled at John and tilted her head in silent question. 

Shaking his head and rubbing his upper lip, he chuckled. “Of course.” He met her eyes. “Yes. A dance. That would be lovely.”

Before either of them could say more, Michael interrupted to excuse himself. “Victoria needs me too unless she wants to be inundated with overeager striplings until dawn. Have a nice dance.” He slapped John’s shoulder, causing him to wince, and beat a quick retreat out of the alcove and across the ballroom floor. 

Now alone - or as alone as possible - Sherlock stepped closer, her skirts brushing John’s shoes as she placed a hand on his forearm. “The orchestra is beginning a waltz. Dance with me.” Sliding her hand down his sleeve, she curled her fingers around the handle of his cane. “Can you dance without this?” 

“For a time.” He released his hold, letting her set his cane behind a curtain. He accepted her assistance as far as the edge of the dance floor. There he stopped, turned, and held up his arms. “If I may?”

“You may.” Sherlock felt his right hand settle on her upper back as she curled her left against his shoulder. Their other hands came to rest lightly against each other, palm to palm. The renewed contact made Sherlock very aware of the fabric of her gloves and dress that separated her skin from his touch.

They began to dance. 

The look of concentration on John’s face made Sherlock smile. Setting aside her own attraction to him, which alone was enough to declare him a candidate, Sherlock had not met a man who had shown such respect toward his dance partner. He used a gentle touch that did not direct her so much as a guide her. Her cues seemed to come entirely from her hand upon his shoulder, but just as a wedge moved across a lettered board at a spiritualist’s seance, she could not be entirely certain that he was not dancing to match her expectations.

Yet for all that he suited her, the fluidity of movement possessed by veteran dancers was absent, leaving his technique suggestive of a clever student rather than one accustomed to spending time on the dance floor. 

A serious frown currently drew the corners of his lips down, but the creases around the corner of his eyes were curved to better suit a smile. She watched his lowered eyes, watched him mouthing the time as they stepped, and rather hoped that he would not spend the entire dance engrossed in not stepping on her toes. She wished to speak with him, to find out if he might be amenable or available, but he remained somewhat stiff in the execution of the turns and distant in his concentration. As the dance progressed and his jaw flexed with each ‘one-two-three’ he murmured, she began to question the wisdom of using the cover of the dance for privacy. 

At last, the lines eased from his forehead. With a noisy sigh, she relaxed as well, and he lifted his head to grin up at her. Much to her amusement, his limp seemed to vanish as he squared his shoulders and led her through the patterns in earnest. A month of London rest had done him some good. As the tension left them both, Sherlock found herself trying to suppress a reflexive return smile. “Have you been practising?” Sherlock asked, “Regina said you had nearly fallen over.” 

“Some. Some practice. I had to be sure I could stay upright for an entire piece, just in case I found someone I truly wished to dance with.” He did not move his hand, still keeping his palm against her shoulder blade, but his fingers traced the top edge of her corset along the seam. Sherlock could not read whether the small, intimate gesture was a conscious act on his part.

Distracted, Sherlock told him, “You are doing very well.” 

“Thank your friend Regina, then. She insisted I make a showing tonight.”

“She also said that you offered sex after their dance.” Sherlock said. Her thoughts all came back to her goal. It was only after she saw the creases return to his brow that it occurred to her that she was being vulgar. 

“A flirtation, nothing more. If I offended her, then I owe her a better apology.” He paused, but Sherlock did not comment; she merely observed with interest. A man called to task revealed much about his character. A flush rose to his cheeks and his hand stilled upon her back. “She corrected my rudeness, but said nothing else. If she spoke of it to you - I fear I offended. Is she very angry with me?” 

She took stock of his body language, but he displayed concern only and none of the panic of a more immature individual. The tension she associated with lack of confidence, like that which had filled him at the beginning of their dance, remained absent. He looked to her for clarification and would look to Regina for forgiveness, if necessary. The very idea gratified her.

A slow smile spread across Sherlock’s face. “She found you charming, if forward in your flirtations.” Squeezing his uninjured shoulder reassuringly, she made sure that he returned her smile before continuing, “I do not believe she mentioned it to Michael, either.” 

“I might never hear the end of it, if she had. A relief, that she does not hold my ill-manners against me.” John glanced toward the orchestra as they passed, “And though I would will this dance not end, would you be so kind as fulfil your part of the bargain? How did you know about, well, me?” 

Sherlock unfocused her eyes, casting back to the moment where she had catalogued the details that made the man. She did not explain as she normally did, rattling off a bewildering list of incidentals as they leaped to the fore her recall. Instead, she began slowly and matched the rhythm of her voice to the cadence of their steps. Her explanation remained a list, but she paced it so that each element might sink in before she continued to the next.

“A tan to match your military cut, with an anomalous friendship with Michael; He never lends a good suit. Thus you acquainted yourselves before your lives diverged. In light of your profession: Medical school. You are not landed and he had tutors. The bootblack beneath your fingernails says you care for your own wardrobe, so the stitch mending your shirt means you are a trained surgeon.” 

“A soldier surgeon, then, and young enough to be in London before the end of your tour.” Sherlock winced in sympathy. “You still breathe as if you are quite afraid breathing will hurt, with a little hitch every few steps. The cane also suggests fever. You need the support for the sake of your wind and stamina rather than for a single knee or hip. If anything, you limp awkwardly as if both legs pain you. Of the body-weakening malaises ravaging our soldiers, the most probable is enteric fever. The limp is merely a memory you have yet to shake, fortunately, for which I am grateful or we would not be dancing, but the stage of fever that settles in your bones is brutal.

“I’m surprised you’re alive at all. I am glad you are, but I fear I must deposit you in a chair once we’re done.” Sherlock pressed her lips together once she finished, staring into the middle distance, wondering at the faint gratitude she held that he had not succumbed to fever if only so he might meet her here. It took a long moment for her to shake herself from her reverie and look back down at her dancing partner. 

John had the most peculiar look on his face, eyes wide and mouth slightly open, a crease between his eyebrows. The slight upturn at the corners of his lips baffled her, and she felt the familiar terror of lifting the bow from her violin as the last note faded. Then, too, it always took a stretched, empty moment for her audience to wake up enough to applaud.

“All that from shaking my hand,” he said. 

Sherlock had not been expecting the note of awe in his voice nor for him to resume stroking her shoulder blade with his fingers. She had instead expected Mycroft’s reaction - annoyance and superiority - or, more likely, Victoria’s reaction - fear and defencive anger. Not many more had heard her reveal just how much of themselves they daily wore about their person. The lack had been part opportunity and part practicality.

“Yes.” Sherlock prided herself in her counterfeit responses to polite social cues, but she was at a loss in the face of genuine admiration. “From a glance at your shoes as well.” 

John laughed - a short laugh, part incredulity, but a laugh nevertheless. “Brilliant.” 

Sherlock trod heavily on one of John’s boots and they both stumbled. John’s laughter rang out again and his good humour and gentle touch helped her steady herself.

Expectations seemed a dangerous thing now, and she had no map to what behaviour might be appropriate to indicate her interest. They were touching, however, so she might take advantage of the fact. Taking a breath, she curled the fingers of her outstretched hand around John’s and waited for some sort of response. A heartbeat later he shifted his palm. The fabric of her glove twisted uncomfortably until he readjusted to curl his own fingers about hers. 

Definitely a candidate. 

The dance ended too soon for Sherlock’s taste. While the orchestra plucked strings and rustled papers, she stepped away. “Thank you for the dance,” she said. John was running his thumb cross the fingers of his left hand, and now that he was not distracting her with those fingers on her back she found his face pale and sweat beading along his hairline. He had finished the dance, but she did not think he would be up for another. “Shall I escort you back to your cane? I fear I have exhausted you.” 

The corners of John’s lips quirked up and he went to take a step. “That would be-” He exaggerated the motion of bringing his foot down enough to indicate to Sherlock what he was about to do. She only had an instant to be surprised before his ankle turned beneath his weight and he crashed to the floor. Flailing his arms, he accompanied his descent with a head-turning shout, drawing stares and startled shrieks from their nearest neighbours. Sherlock tried to catch him, failed, and ended up kneeling on the floor beside him, her skirts entangled with his out-flung limbs. 

“John-” She began. 

“Would you help me to the wall?” He raised his volume to include the surrounding curious in their conversation. “I believe I have turned my ankle.” 

Sherlock suppressed a smile. “Of course. I see Michael coming for you, but the next song is about to start. Let me help you up.” 

Once upright, John put an arm about Sherlock’s waist. She, in turn, secured a hold across his back and under his arm, keeping him vertical as he ostentatiously limped toward a worried Michael struggling through the guests to meet them. 

As John took hold of her, he slid his fingers across each of her corset stays, the pressure and warmth sinking through every layer to tell her precisely where his fingers were at any given moment. Sherlock felt the vibration of each stay as he found it. Unaccustomed to all but the most utilitarian of human contact, every small movement sent a tingle down her spine. She pressed her nails into his ribs where she supported him, a signal meant as a warning that he was to go no further in the presence of hundreds. He was pushing the boundaries of propriety as it was.

If he took her warning, he chose to ignore it, and his caress across the ridged fabric reminded her of bowing across violin strings to make them sing. “Doctor Watson.” She spoke for his ears alone. “A harmless flirtation?”

Impossibly, impertinently, John looked up at her and asked, “Why, Sherlock Holmes, what do your observations tell you?” 

Sherlock ended their short walk overwarm and once more very aware of how her corset changed her breathing, pressing and restricting every deep breath. John needed little help to keep himself moving despite the pained edge that crept into his breathing, but she did not pull away. When they halted at the edge of the floor, John squeezed her waist briefly before he let her go. She couldn’t help herself. She let her hand trail across the flat of his back as she once more stepped aside, feeling the planes of his muscles beneath his jacket.

As soon as they were both free of one another, she experienced a mad desire to tip back into an embrace in front of everyone. She catalogued the impulse and filed it away for further study. Not only had that never happened before, now was not the time to begin courting scandal. Sherlock needed to speak to John alone first. She would not drag an unsuspecting man into her schemes, for all that he seemed somewhat of a rogue. 

Michael held John’s cane and offered it as soon as they were within range. “You well, old boy?” Michael asked, earning a grin from his friend. 

“Never better. Just turned my ankle.” John lied unrepentantly. As they walked towards the wall, John’s limp returned. Sherlock neglected to mention it returned on the wrong side. 

She trailed along behind the two men, deep in thought. Inexperienced in the intricacies of flirtation though she was, Sherlock nevertheless held some small talent for mimicry. Her biggest problem in this instance was a complete lack of example to work from. Victoria and Regina batted their eyes and boosted egos, but both stuck to the realm of ‘harmless’. Even Victoria - a woman unafraid to flatter a man for the fit of his trousers or to drop her voice to encourage a suitor to lean closer - ultimately only had eyes for Michael. The last Sherlock had watched their interaction was at her own debut, and they had been over-polite to the point where even Regina had picked up on their budding affection. 

Sherlock didn’t want harmless. She didn’t need harmless. She intended to break every rule and destroy her reputation completely, freeing herself from the expectations she despised. She _needed_ dangerous. 

They reached the wall, the chairs, and a pocket of empty space large enough to breathe in. Sherlock was pleased to see that after a single, brief wince when he sat that John relaxed and a bit of colour returned to his face. 

He found her watching him. “Quite the end to any waltz, don’t you think, Miss Holmes?”

She suppressed a smile and kept her tone dry. “Quite.” 

Michael raised his eyebrows at her, but he caught himself and waved away his question unasked. Instead, he focused on his friend. “You will be alright? You look a bit peaky. Do I need to call the carriage?” He leaned closer and used a stage whisper to ask, “Did she do something to you?” 

“Mister Stamford.” Sherlock protested.

John only laughed. “Just need a bit of rest, though I fear I am done with dancing tonight.” John offered Sherlock a charming smile that nearly made her look over her shoulder to see if he might be addressing someone beyond her. “Miss Holmes can keep me company.”

“I wou-” 

“She would love to, but-” Regina arrived mid-word and interrupted Sherlock’s acceptance. “ _But_ she has duties tonight as one of Victoria’s supporters. There are a whole bevy of suitors that need to be properly handled and Victoria only has so many dances to handle them. We’ve let Sherlock have her fun,” Regina’s pointed look had Sherlock squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin defensively, “but I’m afraid I really must steal her away. You understand.” 

“Of course.” John nodded, amiable. “Another time, then.” 

“It was a pleasure, Doctor Watson.” Sherlock acknowledged him with a brief curtsy. As she turned to leave, her hem snagged on the tip of his cane. When she faced him to ask him if he would kindly release her dress, she found him already watching her. Their eyes met and, much to Sherlock’s surprise, he winked. 

A small smile snuck onto her face and she left his presence amused. 

Regina barely waited until they were out of earshot before grabbing Sherlock’s forearm and yanking her behind a tall potted plant. “What in God’s name were you doing?” 

“Doing?” Sherlock looked down her nose at her friend. She had rather wanted to chat with John. Perhaps not about her dramatic plan, but he interested her and they might have found they had more than simple chemical attraction between them. “I should think it should be perfectly obvious. I rather expect even you could have determined that I was dancing.” 

“You looked like you were staring a hole through poor Mister Watson’s face. It was terrifying.” 

“And you took it upon yourself to separate us?” 

Regina stamped her foot and pulled Sherlock’s ear closer. “You were making people talk. And I know you don’t care, but you need to care enough not to make it hard for us to remain friends. You were showing so much favour to a completely unknown man, unknown to the ton at least, that if you had spent the rest of the evening in his company that you would have made useless all the invitations we’d been securing you for nearly half the remaining season. You can’t just- you can’t just do _that_. Helping him to the side of the dance floor? You should have waited for Michael. You have to wait for Michael.

“You don’t care. They care. You are being judged especially harshly for tonight’s scene and for whatever you did at my garden party. Knowing what you’re like, they ask, why do we stay friends with you? You stood with us at our debuts. How morally suspect, then, are we? 

“Damn- damn everything, Sherlock. The bottom dropped from my stomach the moment I saw you with your arms about one another, the mitigating circumstances barely enough to keep it within the bounds of propriety. Sherlock, if you keep doing this then Victoria and I will have to cut ties with you for the sake of our own reputations. I don’t want to be the sort of friends who only write letters at Christmas, but I do want to marry when I am done with my seasons. Please.” 

Sherlock stared at Regina. “Good Lord.” 

Pink in the face and panting now that she had finished with her diatribe, Regina shook her head. “I love you dearly, Sherlock, but you can’t show any more favour to him tonight.” 

“I have never heard you swear.” Sherlock re-evaluated her interactions with John, including the responses of those surrounding them: the stares, the gasps, the whispers. She dropped her defencive tension and when she did, Regina loosened her grasp on her arm. 

“I am sorry, Regina. I did not mean to cause you harm by my thoughtlessness.” 

Her relatively straightforward plan was going to need modification to prevent her friends from becoming drawn into the scandal. When she had started upon this path, she had not expected to have friends at all, let alone those which would require protection. Regina’s distress revealed to Sherlock another level of complexity. This would require thought and, likely, she would ultimately need to loosen her ties to both Victoria and Regina. 

“I am sorry,” Sherlock repeated. Leaning down, she hugged her friend - a tentative, unfamiliar gesture that felt strange to perform. Regina was a tactile creature and words were often both inefficient and insufficient. Sherlock pressed her cheek to Regina’s hair, trying not to muss the mass of pins and coils but still offer a proper apology. 

Regina stiffened momentarily, but before Sherlock could pull away, she wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s torso and gave her ribs a good squeeze. Apology accepted. “Just be careful, Sherlock.” 

“I shall.” Straightening and releasing her friend, Sherlock drew as much of a lungful as her corset allowed. Breathing in any configuration other than bolt upright was a challenge, but the reassurance Regina had taken from the hug seemed worth the discomfort. “Now - you did not sound as you were lying when you said Victoria needed us to vet her suitors.” 

The usual bright smile returned to Regina’s face and she nodded enthusiastically. “Not a lie, swear, though Victoria knows how much you hate making small talk, so she was going to let you be. You don’t-” 

“I’d be delighted to,” Sherlock interrupted, “it’s the least I could do for your assistance in keeping me from making a fool of myself.” 

“Victoria will laugh herself silly when she hears.” Regina grasped Sherlock’s hand and pulled her toward where the guest of honour was enjoying the attentions of the young, male, and eligible. “But she will thank you. Any little bit helps tonight. I think her grandmother over-invited.” Regina’s observation had Sherlock laughing as they jostled their way through the crowd.

Sherlock did not glimpse John even once, the duration of the night thus occupied with dancing, small talk, and maintaining her facade of polite interest. By the time Victoria ushered the last guests out and released her friends from their duties, the sun was rising and John was long gone.


	6. John Gushes to Michael / Irregulars Reassigned

Michael and John rambled down a rutted lane out near the Stamford’s estates. They had left London for the week, Michael insisting that John breathe something other than soot and fog from the Thames for a span to see if his health might improve further. As they walked, a brougham paced them a dozen yards back and John hadn’t decided if he were grateful to Michael for thinking ahead or annoyed that they must pay quite so much attention to his protracted recovery. He had yet to start panting, but his cane made deeper divots in the packed road with every fencepost they passed. 

He refused to dwell on the negative; He had managed an entire dance for once. He was improving, though slowly, and his and Michael’s combined medical experience had given him confidence that he might regain the majority of his stamina. He would never be the same, of course, and redeployment was out of the question, but one did not need to be fighting fit to enjoy a pleasant constitutional past rows of hawthorn and apple. 

Michael acted the tour guide, pointing to a decrepit looking tree at the edge of the orchard. The trunk had bowed beneath the weight of its great age and its gnarled boughs coiled through a rusted waggon wheel that looked ready to crumble to rust at a touch. Still, the tree was covered with tiny half-formed apples. “Four hundred years old, John, and producing apples. If only we fragile mortals could last as long and be as productive.” 

“Impossible.” John took the excuse to pause for breath. Leaning heavily on his cane, he stared up at the tree. “Apple trees die before their first century.” 

“Then it’s the work of fairies.” Michael laughed. “If you were a fairy, wouldn’t you think the old boy was the perfect perch to watch knobbly old veterans hobble down the lane?” 

John chuckled and they lapsed into companionable silence, skirting the edge of a pasture where the equine occupants lifted their heads to watch their passing.

It had been only a handful of days since the ball and while John had needed a day of rest immediately following, the excitement of the night had not proved a detriment to his health. He might dance again soon and count it part of his convalescence if the festivities were scheduled for daylight hours. 

All the better if the Lady Holmes would be his partner.

“John-” Michael interrupted his thoughts, beckoning him toward the fence where two massive draft horses lingered, their feathered fetlocks and powerful muscles signs of their bloodlines. They lipped at Michael’s hands and coat collar, nudging him with their great muzzles. “Come meet Basil and Rosemary.” 

Traversing the ditch at the edge of the road proved more complicated for John that he’d anticipated and he had to put his hands on his knees to catch his wind once across. “I didn’t know you had a fondness for horses.” 

“It’s practically hereditary.” Michael held out a small lump of sugar. When John had recovered enough to accept it, Michael indicated the horses and said, “These two just might be my favourites.” 

John offered the sugar to Basil and wiped his hand on his trousers afterwards. He patted the creature’s substantial neck. “Good stock.” 

“They are. Best lines in our stables, truth be told.” He gave Rosemary a pat of her own and helped John back over the ditch. The draft horses strained at the fence a moment, whickering at the horse pulling the brougham down the road. Soon, though, they had settled and watched John and Michael disappear around the bend. When John looked back before they passed through a copse that hid the pasture from view, he saw them standing at the fence still, ears pricked and staring after him. 

Michael strolled along next to John, matching his pace without complaint. “Lovely weather, isn’t it? Wondrous for the health and all that.” 

“Indeed.” John agreed amiably. The prompt for small-talk was odd, considering that he and Michael had talked about the weather all of once since they had encountered one another a month and a half ago. That particular conversation had occurred during a proper miserable drizzle worthy of complaint. “As much as I prefer London, I think this will only be good for me,” John said. Michael could be bringing up any number of more robust topics, from John’s recovery plan to Miss Victoria. The weather was polite, neutral, and easy. As were horses. And fairy-filled apple trees. 

John halted, planted his cane, and stared at his friend. “Are you trying to cheer me up?” 

“Of course not.” Michael hadn’t hesitated, but he was a terrible liar. He spoke too loud for a deserted road and his smile appeared forced. “Of course not. Why would I be trying to cheer you up?” 

“That’s what I’d like to know.” John gave up on walking anywhere and just stared at Michael. “Why on earth would I need cheering up?” 

Michael rubbed a hand across his face and gave over. “I didn’t think you needed cheering up, not in so many words. Saying you needed a distraction would be better.” John did not respond, only squinting in puzzled query for long enough that Michael continued, “You’ve been out of sorts since Victoria’s ball. Quiet.” 

“No I haven’t.” John objected. Muscle memory pulled him to attention, straightening his spine and redistributing his weight. 

“I did not suggest a trip to the country entirely unprompted, as you seem to think. I worry. Afterwards, you withdrew from what little society you have. I cannot entirely blame you, the one dance you agreed to ended nearly in disaster, but-” John began to laugh and Michael cut off, raising his eyebrows. “Did I say something funny?” 

“I suppose I have been quiet. I’ve been thinking about Miss Holmes.” John shook his head and shifted to lean once more on his cane. “I would not say the dance was a disaster. Quite the opposite. The dance may have exhausted me, but I could have done with seeing her again before we left.”

Michael blinked several times in rapid succession. “I- I see.” He shook his head with a small, disbelieving motion, eyes still fixed upon John. “Really?! I assumed that you had withdrawn to lick your wounds from the talk of the ton. Society is a bit cruel if you are not used to it. That was a reaction I’d expected. I- I hadn’t-”

Pausing briefly, Michael then ventured, “Do you fancy her?” 

“I might do.” John’s expression relaxed into ‘politely enquiring’ with a slight smile that invited challenge. “May I ask why that is so surprising?” 

“She’s Sherlock.” Michael said. “She is a hard one with whom to become accustomed, to put it mildly. She’s an acquired taste, shall we say, and you had enough of her to gag a goat. I usually warn people to reserve their judgement of her until she has made her judgement of them as she’s liable to take a dislike for some spurious reason. Then - then! - heaven forfend she do something about her dislike. I’m constantly surprised she tolerates anyone, let alone is friends with Victoria and Miss Musgrave. And you-”

“Found her both clever and winsome.” John finished. 

Michael’s opened and closed his mouth twice before he found his wits. He asked, narrowing his eyes and choosing his words carefully, “Did you, perhaps, meet some other Sherlock Holmes? Or did you take a measure of some opiate to dull your pain prior to your dance?” 

“I shall assume you are having me on.” John was distinctly unamused. He loosened his grip on his cane and flexed his other hand before curling it into a fist. “Otherwise I might consider yours an intolerably rude response impinging on the honour of the woman I have half a mind to seek out once we return to London.” 

“Half a mind. Ha!” Michael’s laughter died swiftly at the look on John’s face. “I shall say no more, John. It is none of my business, truly, but I do hope you forgive my incredulous response. I fear that I cannot comprehend your attraction to the woman.” 

John dropped his eyes to the road and took several deep breaths before he could respond with civility. “She is an intense creature, I shall grant you that.”

“Intense is a good word.” 

Though John found Michael’s response almost objectionably neutral, he only shook his head and started back down the path toward the carriage that had followed them. “My damned leg is tired.” 

Michael accepted the end of their conversation with a low affirmation. After half a dozen paces, he fell into step with John.

As they spoke to the driver and clambered into the back of the brougham, however, John wondered at the excuse he’d used. His leg did hurt, he had been walking quite a bit more than he had chance to in London, but it was an ache he would have once not considered enough to worry about. He had had injuries as a child and while some had hurt rather more than his leg did currently, he had run and played on them with no sign of the limp that now required him to use a cane. 

John frowned at his knees. Michael, humouring his mood, remained silent as they travelled back toward the manor house. 

The Lady Holmes could very well be correct that his limp was all in his head, but it felt real enough when the pain clawed up his legs to take up residence at the base of his spine. He was avoiding that feeling, nothing more, when he chose to care for himself and ride back. That his pain might be tied to anything else but the physical ravages of his fever and injuries was not something he wished to think on. 

Now he was being as morose as Michael had accused. 

They drove past the fairy apple and John took a deep breath. “How long do you think they’ll keep it alive?” He asked, gesturing out the window. The question itself wasn’t important, any more than Michael’s response was. 

“Oh- as long as it will produce apples, I imagine. I wager it dies the first year it neglects to blossom.” Each regarded the other. Finally, Michael extended a hand. “I shan’t say a word against her.” 

“And I shall take your warnings in the spirit in which they were meant.” John shook on the promise and they grinned at each other. It was not likely that John would forget. There was only another week at the Stamford estate and then he could attempt to find her again. Best he use the week to build stamina that he might claim another dance or two when he did. 

**

“He’s no longer in London?” Sherlock stood in the parlour at Baker street and stared hard at the barefoot urchin before her. “Master Wiggins, are you absolutely sure?” 

The grubby little boy stood straighter and puffed out his chest. “Look for ‘John Watson’ friend of ‘Michael Stamford’,” He recited. “An’ we all looked, we did. But he’s not in London, mistress. He and the other fellow went to the country, so’s said. Didn’t say if or when they’d be coming back.” 

Sherlock folded her arms across her chest and thought for long enough that the silence set her visitor to fidgeting. He dug his toes into the carpet by the fireplace and rocked on his heels, but he made no noise. Eventually, she said, “He would not have retained the room for a week he wouldn’t be using it, not if he has to borrow suits. And there was nothing to say when he was coming back?” 

“Not as we could find, Mistress.” 

“Damn.” If only she had thought to send her young troops out sooner. Until Victoria had called upon her, however, and mentioned that Regina had mentioned her encounter with John and expressed a similar disapproval, the information her Irregulars might have brought would have been redundant. She now wanted to speak with John without going through Victoria or Michael and incurring their inconvenient censure. 

Hesitation had left her with no alternative means of contact and the contactee absent of London for an indefinite span. She said again, “Damn.” 

Wiggins chewed his knuckles as he waited for her to speak. Every time she swore, a smile flitted across his face, which quickly disappeared as Sherlock started suddenly toward the door and rang the servant’s bell. She then focused on the boy, “I am reissuing your marching orders. Your first priority is the man Watson. I will take your other suggestions, but I believe I have found my mark.” 

“Yes, Mistress. Same salary?” Wiggins asked, drawing himself to attention and offering a grin. 

“Cheeky.” Sherlock said, stern enough that Wiggins’s grin slipped. She relented. “Of course. Report upon the morrow with the rest of your crew and have a care that my brother does not see you.” Wiggins’ grin returned and he performed a surprisingly precise bow in acknowledgement.

Sherlock held out her hand to the boy, both his salary and reward for pertinent information resting in her palm, and he plucked the coins free without smudging her gloves. The light-fingered rogue was back at parade rest in front of the fireplace a moment before Molly peered in through the parlour door. 

“Miss Sherlock?” Molly asked, “Shall I see the boy out?” 

“Please do.” She said, shooting the boy a dry glance. “I don’t know how much of the silver you’ve set out yet.” 

“Wouldn’t steal from you, Mistress.” Wiggins turned his cheerful grin on Molly. “Or you, Miss Molly.” 

“Be sure you don’t.” The boy’s infectious expression had Molly smiling back despite her words of warning, though she took care not to touch him as he padded out of the room. Molly began to close the door when Sherlock stopped her with a word. 

“Molly.” Sherlock waited until her servant swung the door open again. “Have a care that you do not tell Mycroft about my Irregulars. I am counting on your discretion.” 

“Yes, Miss.” Molly’s cheeks swiftly pinked, “Not ‘less he asks me straight.” 

“Good.” Molly tried to leave, but Sherlock continued, “I would also like to thank you.” 

Molly froze, the door in hand, and stared at Sherlock a moment in surprise before she dropped her gaze in deference. “My pleasure. I would not tell, truly.” 

“For the dress. The purple one. You did very well with it and I had forgotten to thank you for your services. It flattered me. A testament to your skill.” 

“Oh, then very much my pleasure, Miss. I’m glad it wore well.” Molly’s eyes remained downcast as she spoke. “The Master has not requested more, but I would be willing to construct another. Anything you ask.”

“Perhaps not anything I ask or you should never sleep.” Sherlock said, waving her hand to dismiss the idea. Mid-gesture, however, she paused and stared hard at her maid. Molly had reacted oddly to her flippant response, her chin tucking toward her shoulder while the part in her hair had flushed red. Mayhap Sherlock was speaking only of dresses, but Molly was not. Dropping her hand, Sherlock challenged, “Not _anything_.” 

Molly shuffled like a schoolgirl thrown by a particularly difficult examination. She directed her response at the floor. “Anything.”

“Molly.” Sherlock lowered her voice, using a trick out of Victoria’s playbook to draw Molly’s eyes to hers. “I might hold you to that. Do you understand?”

Unable to look away, Molly bit her lip and nodded. A slight dip of her chin, no more.

“Hopefully Wiggins found the door. Best count the forks.” Sherlock said, hiding the smile that spread across her face by turning toward the fireplace. 

Molly managed a ‘yes, Miss’ and fled.


	7. Do Science, Read Porn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Lest anyone think I’ve cleverly written period-accurate explicit pornographic material, all references and excerpts are from the real-life ‘Pearl’, published in the late 1800s.

Molly placed the teacup at Sherlock’s elbow, nudging a stack of papers out of the way to clear a small space on the tabletop. “Thank you, Molly.” Sherlock smiled at her maid. “That will be all.” Taking the cue, Molly dropped into a brief curtsy and left. When the door clicked shut behind her, Sherlock dropped her smile and rubbed a hand across her eyes with a sigh. 

“Damn you, Mycroft.” She muttered under her breath. The table before her was covered with glassware, jars full of her powders and acids, and several small flame burners. The whole mess sat quiet and cold as Sherlock stared into space, rubbing her thumb across her fingers, absently worrying her callouses. They were slightly numb, indented with fresh marks from her strings. 

Mycroft had deemed her the night’s entertainment, and she’d played a small recital for a handful of his political friends. She had been gracious to the guests, which meant she hadn’t said much at all despite the men’s obvious flaws. She had observed, however. Lord Donovan, Miss Donovan’s father, had been a particularly enthusiastic participant in the meeting, though there were several others equally as glad to be there. It was as if Mycroft had founded his own little club in their parlour, trading connections and information for power and prestige. 

She had whispered a few choice things to her brother about one particular lech who had been staring at her breasts the entire night, but he had responded ‘I know,’ and left her to speculate on the nature of the man’s government connections that her own brother might use her as enticement. Mycroft had shown before he was willing to sacrifice her for political gain, but his plans to marry her off took on another dimension. She could do without the lechery; now that she had met John, she preferred his honest admiration. 

With a sigh, Sherlock sought among her jars for a quantity of potassium chlorate. The powder itself was rather dangerous to have inside of the house, but Mycroft hadn’t asked her to leave behind any of her particularly combustible compounds. She found the jar behind a small collection of eyeballs, but in the process her fingers strayed across her scientific journal full of notes, conclusions, and the addition of a particular sheaf of paper offered by one Victoria. 

It had been the most convenient hiding place. Her shorthand would not have kept Mycroft from her scientific notes for long, but the deterrent was enough that he did not deign to snoop. She doubted Mycroft would have done more than disapprove of Victoria’s gift, but that was not a conversation she particularly wanted to have with an elder brother. 

Sherlock tugged the papers free and placed them square on her workspace in front of her. They were sun-yellowed and a bit warped along the edges. They had travelled, certainly, and Victoria had not been their first owner. “Research.” She told herself, frowning thoughtfully at the bold title: _The Pearl._

The contents of the magazine - no longer bound and barely more than a collection of print - gave her pause. She finished her tea, adding enough sugar to hurt her teeth, and stared hard at the pages without entirely seeing them. She poked the eyeballs in the jar and made a mental note for Wiggins to see if he could not linger about Scotland Yard and supplement Lestrade’s letters with news of his own. Her curiosity over empty eye-sockets occupied what free moments she was not filling with idle thoughts of John. 

After a span, she acknowledged that she was stalling. 

“You may at least learn the theory.” Sherlock informed herself. “Not the theory of the act but the theory of the practice. How others might think of this. How John might think of this, though I do not suppose I should count chickens just yet.” Her access to erotic literature had been perforce limited; her novel collection had been thoroughly and infuriatingly sanitised, and her social circle remained small and distant. Her mother would never discuss the act with her; Sherlock might die of shock and not even Mother wanted that.

All Sherlock had to go on was an appallingly mechanical description from medical books and a glimpse of a foreign novel that Mycroft had discovered out of place and removed from the library. The novel had suggested a great deal more than the usual declaration that ‘women feel no desire at all’. She had certainly felt a great deal more than nothing upon her dance with John, though before their meeting she might have been willing to credit the idea that women did not share the sexual drive of men. Now she felt a drive to understand more than just the mechanics. 

Accepting ignorance might be well and good for others, but not for her. Deliberately, she placed her arms on either side of the publication and opened to the first page to read the introduction.

> _An Apology For Our Title._   
> _Having decided to bring out a Journal, the Editor racks his brains for a suitable name with which to christen his periodical. Friends are generally useless in an emergency of this kind; they suggest all kinds of impossible names; the following were some of the titles proposed in this instance: "Facts and Fancies," "The Cremorne," "The All Round," "The Monthly Courses," "The Devil's Own," and "Dugdale's Ghost"; the two first had certainly great attractions to our mind, but at last our own ideas have hit upon the modest little "Pearl," as more suitable, especially in the hope that when it comes under the snouts of the moral and hypocritical swine of the world, they may not trample it underfoot, and feel disposed to rend the publisher, but that a few will become subscribers on the quiet. To such better disposed piggywiggys, I would say, for encouragement, that they have only to keep up appearances by regularly attending church, giving to charities, and always appearing deeply interested in moral philanthropy, to ensure a respectable and highly moral character, and that if they only are clever enough never to be found out, they may, sub rosa, study and enjoy the philosophy of life till the end of their days, and earn a glorious and saintly epitaph on their tombstone, when at last the Devil pegs them out._   
> _Editor Of "The Pearl."_   
> 

The straightforward language of the apology had Sherlock blinking at the page in disbelief.

It was a fact of herself that she was not inclined toward blushes, shame, or delicacy. All her life, she had accepted and dealt with all manner of crisis that would have sent a hypothetical proper lady into a swoon. Only the fragility of the human state, the habitation of an imperfect body unable to be pushed past certain natural limits, had ever given her pause. She had forced herself to the point of collapse in pursuit of her passions, and what limits she knew she possessed were many sleepless nights and twists of tobacco beyond sitting sedately and casually reading a paper.

She should not be this uncertain about her research, especially since there was little true lewdness contained within what she had just read. 

Using the jar of powder she’d found earlier, she took great care in pouring a small quantity into a beaker, distracting herself from continuing with _The Pearl_. She needed to think. Idly, she spooned sugar from the tea service into her cup and - almost as an afterthought - into the small beaker. Stirring the beaker carefully, Sherlock reviewed the introduction once more. When she reached the end, she rubbed a hand over her eyes and broke into laughter.

“Oh, you are an idiot.” Sherlock told herself. “Here you are, balked by frank language which you yourself often use. No wonder you are uncertain - you know how you _should_ feel and you simply cannot. Lord have mercy.” She tapped the spoon lightly on the side of the beaker and rearranged the jars to leave access to a small stoppered bottle of acid as she came to terms with her epiphany. “You’ve never cleaved to the mores of polite society. No reason to feign a blush in the privacy of your own quarters because you ‘ought’ to.” 

The nerves she had anticipated, had expected with subconscious certainty, had not manifested. She was completely thrown. The ridiculousness of being nervous about not being nervous allowed her to shed the remainder of her qualms in reading Victoria’s gift.

By the time she had finished organising her workspace and turned back to the papers, her uncertainty had burned away in the light of her curiosity. The introduction had whetted her appetite for what knowledge the little journal might impart. 

She added tea to her cup of sugar, remembered at the last moment to not use her teaspoon, and settled back onto her chair. First: a survey of the material. Sherlock turned to a random page and began to read.

> _The butler was down on his knees in a moment, and glued his lips to her crack, sucking and kissing furiously, to the infinite delight of the girl, who sighed and wriggled with pleasure; till at last Mr. William could no longer restrain himself, but getting up upon his knees between Lucy's legs, he brought his shaft to the charge,_

Sherlock’s eyebrows climbed. A survey might have been a mistake; a smidgen of context would have been preferable. Observant as she was and as worldly as she considered herself, it appeared past time for her to at least consider that her life thus far had been extremely sheltered no matter how large her reference library at home. The idea of a man on his knees and beneath her skirt was such a curious idea that she could not quite decide if it were appealing in itself or merely startling enough to arouse her lust for further knowledge. 

> _the manly shaft as it worked in and out of her sheath, glistening with lubricity, whilst the lips of her cunny seemed to cling to it each time of withdrawal, as if afraid of losing such a delightful sugar stick;_

“Sugar stick?” The imagery struck her as distressingly out of place, especially in light of the final sentence of the paragraph.

> _they both lay in a kind of lethargy of enjoyment after their battle of love._

Sherlock had chosen the climax of the chapter, it seemed. Turning a few pages further on, she found a selection of poetry as well.

> _The fair lay gasping with distended limbs,_  
>  And unremitting cockstands stormed their quims.  
>  Then Frigging came, instructed from the school,  
>  And scorned the aid of India-rubber tool.  
>  With restless finger, fired the dormant blood,  
>  Till Clitoris rose, sly, peeping thro' her hood.  
>  Gently was worked this titillating art,  
>  It broke no hymen, and scarce stretched the part;  
>  Yet lured its votaries to a sudden doom,  
>  And stamped Consumption's flush on Beauty's bloom.  
>  Sweet Gamahuche found softer ways to fame,  
>  It asked not Dildo's art, nor Frigging's flame.

Sherlock stopped reading after a particularly terminology-laden stanza and took a sip from her teacup. She fair needed a dictionary if she were to grasp what on earth the authors were going on about. Rifling through the rest of the papers, she determined that there were at least two or three issues of the journal in her stack and, hopefully, that would be more than enough contextual information for her to sort everything out. Vulgar didn’t about cover it. If she were to be discovered reading this, she might be able to ruin herself through the possession of it alone. The idea inexplicably frustrated her. The journal suggested so much and she had but a single encounter planned to satisfy her insatiable curiosity.

After slurping some of the unstirred sugar-sludge from the bottom of her teacup, she refilled on both tea and sugar. She turned once more to the beginning of the journal. It was time to begin her research in earnest, beginning with Sub-Umbra. As she read, her mind set to work absorbing the text, the subtext, and any number of connotations and references. Woefully unfamiliar with the topic, she nevertheless approached it with the enthusiasm she saved for the most complicated of projects.

She traced small circles along her collarbone and rubbed at the base of her neck, her elbow on the table as she leaned well over the pages. With her other hand, she toyed with the bottle of acid, running her string-reddened fingertips repeatedly around the edges of the label. Sherlock read and absorbed as much as she could, discovering in the process that she became overwarm enough to tug her dress’s sleeves down to expose her shoulders. 

The second chapter of the journal continued the stories of the first and Sherlock had gotten halfway through a paragraph reading, _“till it was chock up to the opposing hymen. She gave a start of pain, but her eyes gazed into mine with a most encouraging look,_ ” when Mycroft knocked perfunctorily half a second before he opened the door. 

Sherlock’s only concession to surprise was a slight stiffening of her spine. In one fluid movement, she shifted in her chair to stare at the interloper and surreptitiously tugged her sleeves back into place. Her brother had the most infuriating tendency to scold her for indecency even when she was working on projects of utmost importance. 

She stared at him in flat disapproval. He returned her regard with a too-pleasant smile that she had come to associate with inconvenient queries.

“Do you have no concept of privacy, dear brother? Are your guests gone that you would pester me instead?” 

“I came to thank you for your presence tonight.”

“You never thank me.” 

“I suppose this cannot be a first, then?” Mycroft asked, dropping his smile now that it was no longer needed. When Sherlock said nothing, he shrugged and got down to business instead. “It has come to my attention today that you are spending a great deal of money on the season - to the point where I considering limiting you to a modest stipend so that I do not have to send to Mother for additional funds for our remaining months in London. The bizarre purchases I indulge you that end up in the parlour are one thing - your eccentrics entertain my colleagues, especially Lord Donovan - but your recent spending habits are far beyond the norm even for you.”

Sherlock’s thoughts were so far from money that it took her a long moment to catch up to the conversation. Mycroft, being Mycroft, noticed her hesitation and narrowed his eyes. His suspicious look prompted her to speech before she was entirely ready. “The season is expensive, Mycroft. Victoria’s one of the top tier in wealth if not heritage, and I cannot be seen to lag behind her.” 

“Might I remind you,” Mycroft said, eyes still narrowed, “That while Victoria has a seemingly inexhaustible ability to pay for any bauble or frippery she might desire, that we depend - on the main - upon our own estates.” 

“I am well aware.”

“Then where, praytell, have you been spending the money?” 

Sherlock was getting very tired of this line of questioning. “I have been securing my future. That’s what the money is for, is it not? I was under the impression that I could spend it at my discretion. Was that not Mother’s command?” 

“You’re telling me that the drain on my accounts is helping you secure a husband?” 

The quickest way to put Mycroft on the scent was to lie or evade, and she certainly had no desire to even hint at her Irregulars. Seizing the vial of acid, she put her back to him and spoke over her shoulder as dismissively as possible. “I was just about to catalyse this reaction. Leave off flustering me and let us hope I have not forgotten one of the stabilising agents upon your rude entrance. If I have left out anything, you might have to replace the wainscoting.” 

“Again?” Mycroft was not amused.

Sherlock smiled at the journal in front of her. “Again.” 

“Oh, must you? Sherlock- do not be petty about this. Do you at least have receipts that I could use to justify myself to Mother?” 

“Mother will understand. She was young once,” Sherlock said, ignoring her brother. Plucking the stopper free, she tipped a small quantity of the acid into the prepared beaker. After that, there was no point in either of them even attempting to continue the conversation. 

The beaker erupted in a quick flash of violet light and began to spew smoke into the air. Using the cover of a fear of fire, Sherlock gathered the journal, her notes, and the other loose papers on her workbench into a pile and retreated with them as the beaker howled and vibrated. Mycroft had paled considerably and had pulled a kerchief from his vest pocket in one swift motion to cover his mouth. 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock shouted at her brother over the noise, serene despite her volume. She, of course, had expected the reaction. It had been among the first five or six to sear away her eyebrows. The gas, noise, and flickering light that filled her chambers was satisfyingly simple, destructive, and - above all - distracting. “Do not interrupt me when I am at my chemicals.”

“Dammit, Sherlock.” Mycroft moved to the hallway and shouted down the stairs for his manservant. “Damn- why did you even- Mother will-” 

Sherlock, ducking beneath a billow of the smoke, interrupted him to say, “Don’t breathe it,” and tucked her journal on the bookshelf on her way to open the window.


	8. Click. Step. / Late Night News

The night was young, though dark, and the lights shone red through barely-seen windows on either side of the street. Women teased him with lewd comments as he walked by their establishments and the cheery music designed to lure patrons warbled off-key, distorted by the fog. The only distinct sound was the rap of a cane on the cobbles. 

What the women said mattered little as John peered at individual faces, pretending- well, he wasn’t pretending to anything, really. He was looking for a seamstress with, perhaps, sharp cheekbones and a superior smile. The women knew well why he was here. One did not often stumble upon a whore’s road on a soupy night by accident. 

The trip to the country had done him almost too much good. John had returned to London this morning with a spring in his step and a fire in his belly. He still needed the cane, still got tired after strenuous exercise, but he could ramble down a country lane for an hour without taxing himself. The return of his stamina had made him go from idly thinking he might enjoy a good fuck to realising just how very long it had been since he’d tumbled a woman into bed. His last experience had been before both his illness and his injury, months ago. 

The placards beside each door remained fogged smudges of wood and words until he was nearly on top of them. That one was a washerwoman, there a ubiquitous seamstress’s, there a drinking establishment. The pub turned out to be a true pub rather than a brothel; the leaving men staggered and had to be supported by the befrocked and painted women who accompanied them. Streetwalkers trailed their fingers across John’s forearms as he passed, trying to entice, but the touches were merely touches. He ignored them. 

John’s instincts were confounded by the haze and the shadow, and the mouths of alleyways he passed made him unwontedly nervous. He was not the soldier he once was, not yet recovered, and the shapes in the dark put him in mind of the visions when his fever had been worst. As if to give his edginess merit, a shadow detached itself from a wall and ran across his path. The unarmed John could do no more than stare. A youthful face briefly peered at his own before ducking around a rubbish bin. 

He was in a mood tonight and no mistake. Truth be told, John nearly expected mortar shells to explode nearby. For all the music and colourful streetwalkers to keep him company, his shoulders would not loosen. He was mid-London and safe, but his mind scrabbled at the ghosts of memories. It was all part and parcel of why he was here: He wanted to feel the warmth of a woman around his cock to prove to himself he still lived. 

A hand lingered at his elbow, bold now that he had stopped all forward progress and stood panting in the fog. John found himself with a young woman looking up at him, petite and showing near all of her breasts. Her closed-mouth smile prompted him to smile in return, but when her fingers smoothed over his belt and her hand sought the waistband of his pants, he stopped her. He was half-hard, but this eager girl was not who he wanted. 

When his hand closed about her wrist, her eyes widened and made her look that much younger as she stared up at him. She was a tiny, frightened sparrow, her heartbeat fluttering beneath his thumb which rested habitually across her veins. 

“A room, M’Lord?” The tremulous question had him shaking his head, his thumb rubbing small circles on the flesh of her wrist. “Somewhere more private?” 

He was here for a fuck, wasn’t he? John shook his head again. “Not tonight.” There was no knowing how well his stamina had truly recovered, at least not enough to know how athletic he would be in bed. If he overextended himself, she would be helpless. But- there was always a _but_ \- that was an excuse, and a poor one. He wanted his hands all over the woman he’d met at the ball nearly a fortnight ago, the one a head taller than the little whore in his grasp. He wanted her intensity and her feral smile and the way she had responded to his hands upon her. It had been a mistake to come here, though his body had demanded the attempt. Every woman who had crossed his path was a poor substitute for Sherlock Holmes. 

The whore had regained her equilibrium and was running her free hand up the arm that held her. “Costs extra for the middle of the street.” 

John’s mind remained elsewhere as the woman tried to coax his fingers apart by concentrating her attention on other parts of his body. All of his worries rose to the fore as she traced his muscles with lacquered nails.

The young whore threw into relief the differences between herself and those of the higher class, highlighting just how dismal his chances were with Sherlock. Ladies did not engage in bedplay with soldiers. He could expect no congress between himself and a woman whose virginity was her most marketable feature - second perhaps only to her inheritance. With the woman of his fantasies participating in the season, his advances would be unwelcome at best. 

Miss Holmes needed a husband, an alliance, and all those things that a lone, invalid former medic would never be able to offer. He could barely think straight for want of her, but he had nothing to offer but a reputation on three continents, skill in the bedroom, and an inexhaustible supply of war stories. Women needed more. 

A hand on the front of his pants drew him back to the present, a reminder that some women desired only access to one purse to gain access to the other. 

John needed his infatuation to cool before he sought a woman’s embrace. The spectre of an unattainable woman would make for uncomfortable sex and awkward names called in the height of passion. The whore might be accustomed to being a proxy cunt, but John would not use her like that tonight. 

His mind made up, and his ardour cooling, the buildings on either side of the lane leaned in claustrophobically close. A drunkard’s wolf-whistle made him drop the girl’s hand and look to the sky for trails of smoke and flame. 

“Apologies.” John stepped away, ignoring the young woman’s confusion. Leaning on his cane, he dug through his wallet for a coin and pressed a shilling into her palm. “I should not have come here. Thank you for helping me realise that.” In another week, he would know better what role Miss Holmes might play in his future. If he must, he would return to forget himself. Until then, he could deal with his desires somewhere that did not recall the battlefield. He left the woman standing dumbfounded in the centre of the road, staring at the coin in her hand. 

John caught glimpses of a shadow moving in the alley as he made his way back toward his lodgings. Streetwalkers, sailors and soldiers passed him by, disembodied limbs and faces floating past in the thickening mist. Impassioned moans from an upper window nearly had him turning back to find the woman who had accosted him, but he knew better than to second guess a course committed.

The hallucinations caused by a swelling of the brain, symptom of advanced enteric fever, had only gone dormant when the fever broke, of this John was sure. This night seemed a natural time for them to return. Still, he did not speed his pace. Haunt as they might, dance as they would among images that inspired his arousal, confuse his body though they tried through fear and fire and desperate need, the shadows held no power over him. They followed him home and kept him warily alert, but their return eased a tension he had not known he carried.

**

The lamp that Molly held shone full in Sherlock’s face as she woke. The unexpectedness of the light and the hand on her shoulder made her jerk upward with a gasp. 

The lamp wobbled as Molly backed away in alarm. 

“What is it?” Sherlock asked, noting Molly’s exhaustion, the strands of brown hair escaping her night cap, and the strain at the corners of her eyes. “What’s wrong?” 

“I said as he should come back tomorrow, Miss, but he just told me that you had said ‘as soon as was possible’. So he’s here, and that means I’m here, and it’s two o’clock in the morning and could you just tell him not to come at two o’clock in the morning?” 

Sherlock pulled out of bed, wrapped herself in a dressing gown, and had found her purse before Molly was done with her complaint. “I take it that Wiggins is here with news?” 

“He is ill-mannered and has poor hygiene. Why did you tell him to rap at my window?” 

“Because you and I are in conspiracy, Molly.” Sherlock found her slippers without her maid’s help as Molly seemed content to trail her with the lamp and complain. Her behaviour was odd enough that Sherlock turned and grasped her shoulders. “Molly.” She gave Molly a little shake, which startled the girl enough for her to focus on her mistress. Once she had her maid’s full attention, Sherlock said, “Thank you.”

Molly flushed a brilliant crimson in the lamplight, meeting Sherlock’s eyes before dropping her gaze to the floor. With another deep breath and a sigh, Molly said, “I don’t mean to sound put out. I’m not. I’m not very graceful when I wake.” 

“Of course you’re put out. Only natural. Wiggins woke you in the middle of the night.” Sherlock ran a hand down Molly’s hair before giving her shoulders a light squeeze. “But if it matters, thank you all the same. I’m sure Mycroft has been asking you questions.” 

Keeping herself very still, Molly nodded carefully. “None direct as yet. I’ve been scarce. He knows when to ask me if I’m keeping something, same as you.” 

“Good girl.” Sherlock smiled. It took Molly a good few breaths to summon up a shy smile of her own. 

Back to business, Sherlock said, “Now. Wiggins. Where did you leave him?” 

“My room. He was sitting on the other bed when I left. We’ll have to clean the sheets.” 

“An empty bed does not need fresh linens every day. The odds are poor that either I or my brother would demote you that you might need to share the room with another maidservant, Molly.” 

“It’s the principle, Miss.” 

They both lapsed into silence upon reaching the hall and Molly led the way down the back stairs to her room. The other doors were shut and the occupants quiet, but the two of them took great effort to not be heard. Stepping into Molly’s quarters, Sherlock found the urchin boy lying on the second cot with his boots propped up and his cap pulled low over his eyes. 

“Master Wiggins.” Sherlock spoke quietly, but the boy was awake again in an instant and swinging is feet back to the floor. “You’ve brought me news?” 

Standing at attention, he bobbed his head eagerly. “Your sir is back in London, ma’am. One of the boys spotted him. He was-” Wiggins cut himself off and beckoned Sherlock to lean closer. Both shot a look at Molly who returned their looks blankly for a moment before understanding caught up with her. 

“Oh- oh, fine.” Molly set the lamp on the dresser so she could put her fingers in her ears.

Sherlock leaned down to hear the boy’s whisper, and when she did, she straightened and stared hard at him. “He did what?!” Her voice rose in surprise and Wiggins giggled. “Did he really?” 

“He was there. Y’see why I wanted to spare the proper miss.” He tipped his head toward Molly, who just rolled her eyes at the pair of them. 

Sherlock relented and gestured for her to put her fingers down. “I can at that. Thank you.” 

“That’s alright, though, ma’am? I figure a lady like yourself might be put off thinking him a good match for courtin’ if he’s going to be doing that in his free time. No need for a wife if he sleeps with all the-” The boy glanced at the wide-eyed Molly. He held up a hand to block her view and made a rude gesture, wiggling his thumb between two fingers. “You know.” He barely breathed the words. “Whores.” Molly heard anyways and gasped.

They ignored her. 

“His whereabouts tonight are indeed shocking, but not - I think - overall bad news. There should be no hardship if he’s still functional and that is, ultimately, really all that’s necessary. He is functional, is he not?” 

Wiggins offered his hands, palms up, and shrugged. “If I take your meaning, ma’am, he just hobbled past all of them and looked very very sad. He could have been randy as a goat, for all I know, but we followed him home when he went. Alone.” 

“That is- not very reassuring.” Sherlock tapped her fingers against the side of her jaw, sinking into thought. There could be any number of reason why John would have visited the ladies of the night and then not availed himself of their charms. A great number. 

But Wiggins was yet untrained in the arts of observation and ‘very very sad’ was less than precise. She would not have imagined that John’s illness would have permanently damaged his ability to hold an erection, but that was one possibility. If true, it would turn her avenue of inquiry into a very inconvenient dead end. 

Wiggins was fidgeting in place by the time Molly spoke up, “You mean if he can give you babies, Miss? The heir is the important bit, isn’t it? When looking for a husband?” 

Sherlock stared at Molly briefly before nodding. The nature of her ruse had nearly slipped her mind. Molly and Wiggins were still operating under an assumption she could ill-afford to correct as yet. “Yes. Yes, of course. It would not do to have the estate go to some unknown relation if neither I nor Mycroft produce.” Mother’s estates could be parcelled out and sold to backwards Scots crofters for all she cared. “And my brother does not seem to be focusing on matrimony at the moment.” 

“Have you found one, then?” Molly asked. “A suitable match?” 

“We shall find out. Do you have the address of his lodgings, Master Wiggins?” 

“Yes’m.” 

“Good. Though I think I shall try setting up a proper, official introduction through Lord Stamford. I daresay inviting him to a solitary luncheon would be far too scandalous based on a dance introduction alone.” Sherlock put a hand on Wiggins’s head to stop him from the increasingly elaborate wiggle-dance he was performing to draw her attention without interrupting her. “For God’s sake, child, calm yourself. You have earned your guinea reward. I have not forgotten.” 

The boy beamed up at her. “Yes’m.” Once paid, Wiggins offered her what little further information he had and clambered out the window.

Molly set about tidying up the room while Sherlock stood in the way, unmoving. 

If she were to have a party, she must needs invite Victoria and Regina, if only to be able to invite Stamford without comment. She almost did not want to, no matter how pleasant the womens’ company or how tactical their presence. Her friends would be guilty by association upon the discovery of her planned transgression. It might be best to remove herself from their small circle entirely. 

_Might?_ Sherlock corrected her own thoughts. It would absolutely be best to leave them behind. If she were to accomplish her goals, she needed to accomplish them friendless. Sacrifices must be made. Marriage was out of the question.

In the meantime, unfortunately, Sherlock needed both women. The invitation would be extended once more and she could only hope she would still be able to distance herself enough to not damage their chances for a good match. They should be innocent bystanders, and demonstrably so. 

Mycroft, on the other hand, was never going to forgive her for introducing scandal into his political career. It was his fault she was here. His political allies were pigs, in any event. If at all possible, she should plan her party to coincide with one the man’s pointless entertainments so she would not have to play her violin again. 

When Sherlock turned to ask Molly about Mycroft’s schedule for the next week, she found the girl seated on the bed with her knees tucked under her chin, curled around a pillow and drowsing. More than anything, the wobble she performed every few seconds to keep herself from falling over convinced Sherlock that their discussion would best be had upon the morrow. Perhaps she would thus avoid the inhibition-less, sleep-deprived version of Molly that this night had revealed. As amusing as her maidservant’s plain speaking had been, Mycroft would surely notice if Molly’s tongue untied around her mistress after so long in her employ and seek the catalyst. 

Molly woke the moment that Sherlock touched her shoulder, but could not quite focus her eyes. When she tried to scramble out of bed a light pressure was enough to prevent her standing. Sherlock soothed her and said, “I shall find my own bed. Sleep. We shall speak of this in the morning.” When the only response was a wobbly, amenable nod, Sherlock clicked her tongue in amusement and coaxed Molly to pull up her covers. 

Brushing a stray lock out of Molly’s face, Sherlock tucked her in and rested a hand on her forehead. She paused to watch the flickering lamplight cast the curves of her maid’s face into relief. 

Molly was too loyal, but in that moment Sherlock was grateful. There would be one person to remain behind after everything was said and done. The girl would not seek another position no matter how ruined her mistress became. Sherlock found independence too dear to quibble at the cost, but solitude seemed a lesser price when surrounded by mere imbeciles. 

The lamp guttered in a draft from the unlatched window and the moment passed.

When the window was firmly closed and the catch reseated, Sherlock left. Molly was already snoring as Sherlock backed into the hallway, shielding the lamp with her hand.


	9. Do You Two Need Us To Go?

Michael pulled John aside after they stepped from the carriage in front of 221 Baker Street. “Mind yourself, John.” He told him as the carriage pulled away. “I agreed to a formal introduction because Victoria asked it of me. I claim no responsibility if you find Miss Holmes less than the rare creature you seem to imagine.”

“An introduction is merely an introduction.” John started toward the house and rapped smartly on the door with the head of his cane. "I don’t feel I should be bound by such a thing. It should be nice to determine what portion our first meeting was mere fancy. Tell me, though, you must have some reason for washing your hands of the matter. Do you fear it will go so badly?"

“She is rather cold-blooded for my tastes-”

“You’ve mentioned.”

“And,” Michael continued, leaning against the door frame as they waited. “Quite simply, yes. I do think this has the potential to go very, very badly. She has a mind analytical to a fault, and I fear you will run afoul of it sooner rather than later.” 

John knocked again and harder than absolutely necessary. If he were eager to be out of this conversation and once more in the presence of Miss Holmes, well, perhaps the servants would forgive him for being rude. “Good God, Michael. Lay off. She exercised her analytical mind on me last we met and I did not run screaming into the night as you seem to think I should have.” 

“Exercised for amusement. For entertainment. Not yet in earnest. She’s simply- simply uncanny. Did you know she sent Victoria a severed hand? Why would she even _have_ a severed hand, I ask you? I would not be surprised if she put a pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid in your tea to observe the effects upon your system and how they differed from their effects on her own. If nothing else, John,” he implored, “If you value your sanity and your health, don’t accept a cup of tea from her.” 

Fortunately for John, Miss Trevor’s arrival prevented him from responding in a way he would likely regret.

She caught sight of them as she descended from her carriage. Her brilliant smile was only for Michael. “Beauty and grace?” Michael asked, lowering his voice so it would not carry over the sound of the busy street. “Tell me true. Forget your lady for the moment and admire mine. Is she not the fairest?” 

Victoria’s smile disappeared with a squawk of alarm as her dress snagged and she was forced to flail for the door frame or risk landing face-first in the street. “Michael?” She called, swatting at a pair of hands that helped steady her from inside the carriage. Michael abandoned John almost before he was done speaking.

“Beauty and grace.” John agreed, but no one was listening. 

Around them, Baker Street traffic flowed in an unceasing stream, horses jostling the hansom as they passed. John could hear the sound of fabric ripping from where he stood. Victoria merely laughed at the damage and steadied herself on Michael’s shoulders. After she had stepped down without any further garment damage, Michael helped an older woman down to the street, introducing himself and pointing in John’s direction. 

John raised a hand when he was indicated. He marked the resemblance between the older woman and Victoria as they approached. The matron had a twisted lip, but a pleasant smile all the same, and was dressed in somber black at odds with her expression. The door still had not opened by the time they all joined John on the steps, so Victoria offered her greetings and introduced her widowed aunt without bothering to wait until they were inside. 

“She’s here for access to the Lord Mycroft’s liquor cabinet aren’t you, Auntie?” Victoria asked, earning a laugh and a nod from the older woman. “My dear aunt here will leave us to our own devices. She promised.” She stood tucked up against Michael’s side as she spoke. Her aunt did not comment upon their entanglement despite the public nature of the stoop, making her an obvious and excellent choice of chaperon. 

Michael chuckled and laced his fingers with Victoria’s. “Three years of subterfuge, m’lady, before you’ll have me court you openly. Are you sure?”

“As long as my father is willing to pay for my parties and my new wardrobes, you’re not getting anywhere with me.” Victoria’s prim response made Michael snort in amusement. “None of that, Mister Michael Stamford. You should be grateful for the implied status that ‘catching’ me will bring. I aim to be notoriously selective.” 

“The longer you wait, the greater the blessing,” Michael teased her, “When you do finally agree to my suit, I’ll be penniless within a year.” Victoria gasped in mock-offence and swatted at him with her parasol. 

John could only shake his head at the pair, sharing a commiserating look with Victoria’s aunt. “Come now-” He interrupted their flirting by deflecting the second blow with his cane, “I’m obligated by the bonds of friendship to insist you cease and desist.” 

“Obligated, John?” Michael asked, breathless with laughter.

John held his cane at the ready. “She’s armed, man! If she tries again, you’re on your own.” 

Victoria placed the tip of her parasol on the step and ignored them like nothing had happened. “Are we to meet in the streets today?” she asked, tipping her head back to peer up at the townhouse’s facade. “How long have you been standing here? Have you knocked?”

“Twice.” John replied. “I should do a third time now that you’re here. Once for each of us, as it were.” 

He made to knock again, but the door popped open without warning before he could do more than shift. Instead of the expected servant, Regina stuck her head through and grinned at everyone on the crowded steps. “What is this? You’re all late!” 

“I beg your pardon,” Victoria said, as regal as any Queen, “but these dear boys have been standing on the stoop since they were early. Why on earth are you playing butler? Should we be worried?” 

Laughing, Regina threw the door wide and beckoned everyone inside. “Of course! Sherlock’s helping prepare for the party.” She conducted them through to the parlour door on the right. As they passed through the hall, Regina held a finger up to her lips. “Listen.” 

As the others cupped their hands around their ears, John bemusedly followed suit. 

Filtering from the direction of the kitchen, they could hear the housekeeper’s raised voice. “Miss- Miss Holmes, please. Put that down, for the love of- Molly, would you get that for me, do be a dear. Miss Holmes! Yes. This morning. We needn’t do it again. No, Molly, please, don’t- you’ve enough to…” The litany continued in the same vein for as long as they cared to listen, Mrs. Hudson’s voice raised when she spoke to Sherlock and dropping into inaudibility whenever her words were directed elsewhere. 

Regina stage-whispered, “Mrs. Hudson can’t tell her to leave. She did for Sherlock’s debut and it did not end well. Sort of. I was here when Lord Mycroft had a very loud discussion with Mrs. Hudson on the topic. Something about raising her wages and humouring her employers. Mixed messages if you tell me, but here we are.”

“Oh Lord, Regina, we’ll never be fed if one of us doesn’t go rescue the servants. The meal was an hour late last time as it was. Sherlock positively breathes chaos,” she told John, not bothering to whisper. Victoria stripped off her gloves and handed them, along with her parasol, to Michael. “I’ll be right back.” As Victoria left, her aunt excused herself. John was the only one who watched the older woman stride down the hall and through an adjacent door, needing no direction. The others stared after Victoria until she disappeared around the corner. Regina led them to sit while they waited. 

Once in the parlour, John sat on an uncomfortable couch and removed his hat to fiddle with the brim. No one came to take their things. Michael simply tossed his hat on a side table. Regina made herself comfortable in a basket seat where the chair back arched quite over her head and framed her blond curls with a backdrop of dark fabric. The effect was much like the cameo she wore at her throat and when she caught John staring, she winked. 

It was all very casual and nothing like what John had been expecting. “Is- is it always like this?” He asked. 

“Is it always like what?” Michael asked politely, unsuccessfully hiding a smile. 

Regina tsked at Michael, “Oh, don’t tease him. You know very well.” 

Michael plucked the hat out of John’s hand and stacked it on top of his own. “Yes. At least when her brother is out. Your dark lady cares little for protocol. I do hope you weren’t anticipating a stuffed shirt frog-marching us to the dining room and glowering at us as we took our meal.” 

“I was, actually.” John said. The Baker street home wasn’t palatial - it was, after all, a townhouse - but it was a step beyond even Victoria’s extravagant London home, though in which direction he could not say. He had never been anywhere as bizarre and confounding as this room. “I’ve only your estates and a bare handful of other experiences to draw from.” 

The fireplace had been blacked and cleaned and a fire laid, but that was the only element even tangentially related to normality. Small ornamental curios rested on the mantle and several dozen more larger pieces claimed tabletops and corners, each stranger than the last. A large Chinese vase acting as a cane, spear, and umbrella cache took pride of place beneath a moose’s head whose antlers were festooned with dozens of chains of varying width and metal. Everywhere John looked was another statuette, stuffed creature, or puzzling amalgamation of metal and spring. A single glass flask sat on the edge of the hearth filled with a thick sludge coloured an alarming shade of blue. The overall impression was more like a well-travelled bachelor’s flat. “Is this all the Lord Mycroft’s?” 

“Mycroft,” Regina answered primly, “Prefers less to more in all but meals.” 

“Then-” John began.

“I confess to be a collector of the rare and scientifically intriguing, Doctor.” Sherlock stood in the doorway. 

Her appearance renewed in John all of his previous fascination. He leapt to his feet and, leaving his cane behind, came to greet the lady of the house in proper fashion. All of his initial attraction returned with interest and the doubts that Stamford had sown dissipated as if they never were. 

Sherlock, for her part, let Victoria into the room, but did not otherwise move as she waited for John to reach her.

Eyes fixed on her, he contrasted her appearance now with how she had looked last they had met. The foremost difference was that her curls had been tamed by a braided spiral laced with tiny flowers. The effect was one more suited to an outdoor tea than the dusty, close confines of a cluttered room, however wondrous that room may be. 

The flowers were so at odds with the room she had decorated that John’s approach was one of reconciling his assumptions. Before, she had been wearing a deep violet ball gown studded with jewels that caught the light. Everything about her had been bold: her words, her intellect, her expressions of interest. Now, she was dressed all in rose, lace trailing across her shoulders to veil the hollow at the base of her throat. 

She watched him with a neutral expression, and he could read no interest on her part. He certainly had no idea what to make of her reserve. It had been a gamble to take such liberties with her person when they danced, but he had been under the impression that they were welcome. However - a wary uncertainty surfaced - he had been just as sure that his ill-conceived flirtations had remained innocuous when teasing Miss Regina. It would not be the first time he needed to rein in his behaviour around a person of the female persuasion and he somehow doubted it would be the last. His step hitched, part limp, part hesitation, and part catching on the carpet, and he saw Sherlock’s eyes flick down, tracking the stumble as he recovered. 

Yet for all of the flowers, for all her controlled demeanour, and for all of the lace and pale colours against pale skin, the intensity that John remembered from the night they met remained undimmed. She took what hallmarks of delicacy and a demure nature he had experienced prior and re-framed them to suit her own designs. The lace across her clavicles neither hid nor forgave how sharply visible the bones beneath her skin were, but John found himself thinking that it suited her as much as the ugly little wooden men dotting the mantle did. 

Standing among her friends, other differences became clear. Regina fair bounced in her chair with barely-contained energy and good humour, while Victoria was sensuous and flirtatious and full of curves that John would ordinarily find magnetic. Sherlock held herself at the ready, an angular blade in a decorative sheath, the dress she wore both flattering her form and disguising a cutting edge. She seemed poised just upon the edge of action; if he watched and waited, he might be able to follow at her heels and be all the better for it. 

Sherlock said nothing further, only extended her hand for John to take when he stopped a hair too close to be strictly courteous. John captured her hand in his own, content to stand just within her reach while he waited for Michael to step up and carry on with the whole nonsensical ordeal. They had been introduced once already.

“Did I not say she had odd tastes? She’s infuriating and interfering, both.” Michael whispered in his ear as he came up behind John. “What more proof do you need?” 

“Mister Stamford.” Sherlock addressed Michael in cool tones. “Would you care to introduce me to your charming friend? I fear the last we met was upon the dance floor and one can certainly not be expected to remember aught in the whirlwind of gaiety that was my dear Victoria’s stunning debut.” 

John’s uncertainty graduated into a fear that she might have truly forgotten him, though he would not have credited it. He opened his mouth to protest that _he_ remembered _her_ , and quite clearly thank you very much, when she shook her head at him. It was a slight shake, barely a movement at all, and she took care to meet his eyes before she performed the gesture. Puzzled, he subsided. 

“Miss Sherlock Holmes, maybe I present to you my good friend, Doctor John Watson.” Michael flailed his arms extravagantly to indicate both of them, dramatic enough to shade into mockery. Rather than call the man out on his ostentation, Sherlock murmured John’s name under her breath upon his reintroduction and followed with a small smile. John’s doubt evaporated. 

“My pleasure, Miss Holmes,” John said, bending over her hand and pressing a kiss onto her skin. They were at her home, her demesne, and she was not wearing gloves. Wanting to take advantage of that fact as much as possible, he did not release her hand after the kiss. She seemed disinclined to retrieve it. He said, “If one dance did not make the impression I had hoped, perhaps another is in order?” 

Sherlock blinked at him. A moment later, her smiled widened enough to crack her facade and she laughed, “Of course it made an impression. I was merely providing the most plausible excuse as to why I would need reintroduction. It is a miserable tradition.” 

“Useful, though,” Victoria piped up from where she was lounging on a divan near Regina. “When one dances with multiple new faces in an evening it is handy enough not to be forced to remember all the rotters’ names.” 

“Sherlock doesn’t have that problem, Vicky, dear.” Regina said overloud, teasing their hostess. “She remembers everything. If she does not remember, she has conveniently ‘forgotten’ and you should be damned ashamed.” 

“Honoured you remember me, then.” John squeezed her hand on impulse. Astonishingly, she returned the squeeze. 

Michael placed a hand on either of their wrists and pulled them apart, but did not otherwise comment on their behaviour. Instead, he said, “There. That was ridiculous but it’s done and we’ll never have to do it again. To the couch with both of you. Sherlock - I am very cross with you.” 

The shared moment broken, Sherlock allowed John to be led away and took herself to a massive chair by the fire. She heaved it around to face the rest of the conversation circle and plopped herself down on the cushion without anything resembling propriety. Only then did she deign to reply, “Whatever for?” 

“For delaying the food, that’s what for.” Michael released John when they returned to the uncomfortable couch. If John had known they were allowed to move furniture, he might have chosen something with more padding and dragged it closer. Michael continued, “What did you have to go on and bother Mrs. Hudson for?” 

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sherlock’s polite smile never wavered, though her delivery became suspiciously deadpan. “I was merely supervising. There were several tasks that I became concerned about and brought to the staff’s attention, nothing more.” 

Victoria groaned, throwing her head back melodramatically. “Sherlock, you nearly had poor Molly in fits. A Lady’s Maid should never be put through half the things you ask of her. You’ll burn her out, candle at both ends and all that.”

“Molly volunteered.” 

“Volunteered my arse.” Victoria’s curse startled a giggle from Regina, who then looked to John for his reaction. John, for his part, looked to Sherlock. She returned his unspoken question with a bland shrug, giving no indication that his interference would be either welcome or unwelcome. 

“It is certainly none of my business what Molly chooses to do when she overhears me lamenting the sorry state of my upcoming entertainments. I’m doing this for you, _Vicky_ , dear, I should have you know.” Sherlock was very decidedly not laughing, but John felt more like he was missing an inside joke than witnessing a tiff. 

Interrupting before they could argue further, he addressed Sherlock, “Are you having us on?” Regina buried her face in her hands and sounded rather like she was choking on something. John frowned in her direction. “Are you well?” 

“She’s fine.” Sherlock said. “And yes. I am. Hosting is outside the realm of my expertise and these two know it very well.” 

“Simply wretched at entertaining.” Victoria drawled. 

Regina uncovered her now brilliantly red face and took a breath to calm her laughter. “It’s hilarious because it’s true.” 

“You’re the only one laughing,” Sherlock pointed out, “So it cannot be all that funny. Stamford doesn’t seem to find it so.” 

“Nor Mrs. Hudson,” Victoria said, “She won’t be laughing the entire time she prepares the meal. I must say, you might have learned from last time. You were the most impatient of all of us.” 

Regina, catching her breath, indicated John and said, “Oh, but his face. Sherlock, I swear he was going to leap to your defence before he caught on. So chivalrous.” 

Rubbing his mouth to hide a smile, John tried to look as if he hadn’t done just that in a roundabout fashion, which only set Regina off again. Test passed, John was pulled into the conversation whether he willed it or no. 

Now that he knew the score, however, he watched Sherlock even when she was not speaking. She seemed poised and relaxed as she listened to her friends’ affectionate banter, her face schooled into an expression of amused detachment. She held herself apart, even though the sort of teasing insults the other women were trading reminded him of the camaraderie he had shared with his military mates. Still, Sherlock responded only in measured tones, emotions thoroughly hidden. John had no idea what to make of it. Sherlock merely leaned on the arm of her chair and - every so often - flicked her eyes to meet his. Unless he missed his guess, she was watching him as closely as he was watching her. 

Regina and Victoria continued onto other topics after they had exhausted poking fun at their hostess, though the ostentatious exchange had served well enough to introduce John to the group. Sherlock chipped in when it suited her, but the other three and John did most of the talking. Everyone made an effort to include Sherlock in their conversation, though Sherlock didn’t bother to include herself. 

John contributed a handful of stories, talked about finding accommodations in London, and shared a few of his concerns about trying to occupy himself once he had recovered enough to return to medical practice. He also told a handful of jokes which brought laughter, but also drove home the differences between his experiences and those of the others. His concerns were not their concerns; his borrowed suit and this room cluttered with very expensive curios were only two indications of many. 

The women studied him like a specimen. All of them - not just Sherlock. This was not his world and everyone present knew. They had been keeping to topics he might ostensibly know something about, but in exhausting those they had seized upon the society papers and their reams of gossip. John was completely in the dark, having no idea who any of the people they were talking about were. Sherlock seemed to know a great deal more than was printed in the society papers. Michael, Victoria, and Regina appeared to take great pleasure in presenting tidbits and having them confirmed or explained away in a supercilious tone. 

He missed what Regina had said, but Sherlock’s expression soured and her chin lifted. She said, “She certainly doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Those papers will publish anything about anyone.” 

“Miss Donovan is only getting back at you for trying to ruin her at my party.” Regina said, wrinkling her nose. “Did you really have to go on with that nonsense? You left me with a mess and I didn’t even know until the day after. That was very rude of you.” 

“The delay was the point.” Sherlock dismissed the complaint with a flick of her fingers, “I didn’t want to ruin your party.”

“John, ignore them.” Michael leaned toward his friend, rolling his eyes. “Petty squabbling among the young this season.” 

John began, “But Sherlock tried to-? It sounds rather more serious-”

“Old Man Stamford.” Victoria overrode John, a bite in her teasing tone, “Speaking with the authority of your advanced years, I see.” 

Regina responded to Sherlock with some heat, ignoring Victoria and Michael’s byplay, “It’s not my parties I’m worried about. It’s yours. If you try to hold one larger than this you’ll have a time of it. We know she’s full of rubbish, of course, so we’re here, but she insinuated rather nasty things. Never right out said any of the things, mind, but the paper speculates well enough to make it as if she’d said it right out.” 

“Fine, I shall listen. What did she say?” 

“She gave reasons for you to be so nasty to her - delectable, publishable reasons that the papers just gobbled up. You supposedly staged your confrontation as an elaborate cut to retaliate for her walking in on you - prior to your introduction, of course - kissing some man behind a curtain. There may or may not have been a ‘panicked moment’ and ‘an arranging of skirts’.” Regina wrinkled her nose. “You can guess what the column offered instead of a more innocent explanation.” 

“A predictable tactic, but not entirely dull. She offered an alternative of plausible revenge which neatly places the blame for my truth on one fiction. Feminine revenge is excusable. Sleeping with that bore she found herself with-” Sherlock shrugged, “I shall not contradict her. It would only add fuel to fire.” 

John interjected, “What is this all about, then?”

“I forget,” Victoria’s smile shaded into a smirk as she considered John, “That you are wholly outside of any set who would care. Sherlock nearly made Miss Donovan completely ineligible for a match by laying out how the woman had taken a lover. Scary does not even begin to cover it. It very well could have destroyed her prospects entirely.” 

“But you’re letting her insinuate you’ve done the same?” John asked, quite appalled. It was horrifying that Sherlock could take such an assault on her virtue as if it didn’t matter. It mattered a great deal, certainly, if not to him. Still, the unconcern with which she met the insinuation left him rather in awe. 

Sherlock took his question seriously. “I am buffered by the nature of our dispute. In foisting some of the damning reality of her situation back on to I who revealed it, she shares the burden and makes us both subject to censure. More the better for her, since her version of events is the simpler explanation. It suits my purposes to let her version stand, as anything I say will be immediately suspect. Without a story from both sides the whole thing will likely lapse into obscurity, given time. No details means a brief scandal in the grand scheme of things.”

“Even so,” she continued, “this ordeal has the ability to tarnish me nearly beyond repair. Potential suitors would have to be apprised of the truth of the matter, if they even approached me, and there is no guarantee they would believe me.” 

Sherlock turned, locked eyes with him, and the world suddenly narrowed to her and John alone as the others faded into his periphery. She said, “This assumes, of course, that I have not met an acceptable suitor and that I have decided to continue to attend events.”

“Have you, then?” John asked, captivated by the intensity of her gaze. He became very aware of the rise and fall of the lace stretched across her upper chest and of the fluid way she shifted to lean casually on one armrest. 

Neither of them clarified which part of her statement he was querying. In the end, it was largely irrelevant; Sherlock’s response applied to both. “That depends a great deal on you.” 

“Sherlock!” Victoria’s sudden exclamation startled John and recalled him to his audience. 

Regina’s and Victoria’s cheeks were flushed with embarrassment at having witnessed the interplay between Sherlock and him, and he could not blame them in the least. If his flirtations were inappropriate - and they always were - then Sherlock’s public discussion of whether or not they were a match was quite beyond the pale. John shifted on the uncomfortable couch and sought his cane for something to occupy his hands. It had been only the briefest moment of connection, but now he rather wished his hat was within arms reach so he could surreptitiously place it in his lap. 

Sherlock, for her part, merely arched her eyebrows at Victoria and challenged her with a curt, “Yes?” 

Victoria swallowed visibly, but did not let Sherlock deter her. Glancing to Michael for reassurance, she forged ahead, “Have you had any deliveries, recently, that would interest a man of science like the good doctor?” 

There was a long silence as Sherlock considered the other woman. The blatant topic change. Victoria’s chin held high. Regina holding her breath. John could only guess at why they all danced on eggshells around Sherlock such that even Michael held himself still and silent. He could hardly credit the conversations he’d had with Michael, but her friends seemed genuinely frightened of what Sherlock might do while angry. John was baffled. The intensity that aroused him in a very literal sense seemed to have a chilling effect on the rest of the company.

Finally, Sherlock nodded and the other guests took a collective breath as the topic change was accepted. Sherlock answered Victoria with a smooth smile and only the barest hint of condescension, “A shipment of blood samples is the most recent thing. Have you, Doctor Watson, much experience with formulae designed to detect the presence of blood in a fluid?” 

“Ah- Not as such, no.” John managed after a brief hesitation. “My speciality has been triage and surgery. Laboratory work has never been my forte.” 

“Pity. I would show you the reaction.” 

“If you’ve still a mind, I would love to see it.” John offered. “It sounds very curious.” 

“Would you indeed?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“I may not muck about with chemicals for the joy of it, but I am not entirely immune to the thrill of discovery.” 

“Well-” Sherlock’s lips curved into a small smile as she looked between the others. “I shall show you now. Dinner is almost ready.” 

John glanced at the door and back. “How do you know that, then?” 

“Servants never skip the squeaky stair when they’re carrying food. We best hurry or Mrs. Hudson is like to start without us.” With that, Sherlock stood and swept from the room without looking back. 

John sought assistance from each of the others, but Michael merely shrugged and Regina averted her eyes. Victoria was the only one who responded to his nonverbal query. “Go.” Victoria said, standing as well and helping Regina to her feet. “We’re right behind you. Just- Just be careful with her.” 

John could not decide if it was a warning to guard himself from what hazards Sherlock presented or if Victoria was expressing concern for her friend. Either way, he said, “Yes, of course. I always take care.” 

Michael slapped John on the shoulder, causing him to wince at the rough handling. “Come along, old chap, you’ve got her willing to let you into the room she keeps her little laboratory. That’s no small honour. Half of her solutions could kill a man if he so much as breathed them.” 

They filed from the room and headed up the stairs. John ended up at the head of the line, Regina on his heels, feeling for all the world like an explorer venturing into unknown territory with every step he climbed. 

A great deal depended on him, Sherlock had said, but the more he thought about it the less sense it made. Each’s attraction to the other was one thing, but she was participating in the season and he could offer nothing to the Holmes’ that would make him an attractive match, nor did he know if he wanted to try. Mayhap if there were another Sherlock for workadays, one who came without the obligations of mad nobility, would it be possible to even contemplate. As things stood, her meaning was a mystery. 

His confusion had only grown over the course of the evening, aware as he was of just how many obstacles they might have before anything even remotely physical could happen between them. It was a pity there were such obstacles at all. Had Sherlock been a woman he had met while deployed, none of this ridiculousness would have mattered. They might have tumbled into bed upon their first meeting. 

Second introductions, indeed. As if the first introduction hadn’t counted for either of them.

John found Sherlock standing over a beaker, beckoning them all to watch her release a few clear drops into a murky mixture. As they all shuffled in to watch, John made sure he stood nearest, their shoulders almost touching. It would be a pity to let whatever connection they had go to waste, at least as long as there was pleasure in it for them both. 

The droplets hit the surface of the liquid and a few reddish-brown globules appeared and drifted to the bottom of the container. 

“Ah, Brilliant.” John murmured under his breath. Sherlock must have heard, because she bumped his shoulder with her own and the contact sent a tiny frisson of electricity down his spine. Too soon, Mrs. Hudson was calling and they all trooped to the dining room for their meal.


	10. Blessings

By the end of the evening, Sherlock found herself moderately annoyed with her friends. Oh, they themselves were pleasant enough, but after dinner and amusements in the parlour all she wanted to do was get John alone and discover if he were willing to join her in conspiracy. 

Impatient as she was, however, Sherlock enjoyed herself rather more than she had anticipated. When Michael announced that he and Victoria had a ball to attend, Sherlock experienced a moment of unease. This dinner might conceivably be the last she shared with any of them.

Sherlock escorted them all to the door, the procession growing as they gained a widowed aunt or two sloshing from access to Mycroft’s fine liquor. John kept up the conversation they had been having prior, as unwilling as she to have their evening end so abruptly. 

“I rather hope you didn’t pay too much for that turban on the fox statue,” he said, “Someone was having you on if they made any claim to authenticity.”

“It is a kitsune statue. Japanese in origin.” Sherlock corrected. She then performed a rather unladylike snort, “And of course it’s fake. I bought it off the proprietor of an opium den here in London. I sincerely doubt he or any of his wares have ever been across the Channel, let alone originated east of the Holy Lands.” 

“Opium?!” John exclaimed, quite relaxed enough now to hold his cane loosely, more accessory than assistance. She had a mad desire to steal it from him and hide it in her umbrella stand. He continued, “Opium does not strike me as something you would take with much relish. Trapped in dreams, the world slowing. I’ve lost good friends to opium and those wretched dens. Why on earth would you traffic with such a man?” 

“Chemistry. Though I did use a proxy for the purchase. Mycroft might have whelped had I not.” Sherlock smiled at him. Then she turned to say farewell to her other guests, kissing the air on either side of Regina’s face.

As an afterthought she told him, “And opium is not my substance of choice, no,” while ushering the older women down the steps. Regina bounded to street level, only to, perforce, halt and wait for Victoria to say her own farewells.

Victoria tugged gently on Sherlock’s bejewelled earlobe and, leaning in, murmured into her ear, “I had a brilliant time. Try not to get into too much trouble.”

“When have I ever gotten into too much trouble?” Sherlock asked. Victoria backed away, shaking her head. Both of them were all smiles, though Sherlock’s was less than genuine. Victoria was not stupid and the timely warning was no accident, but Sherlock could hardly appreciate the sentiment when she both wanted everyone to stay into the wee hours of the morning and to have already left so she could get on with her evening. She attempted to veil her eagerness for everyone to be out the door and gone now that they had made up their minds to leave. 

Michael followed Victoria, blowing Sherlock a kiss and offering his elbow to his ladylove in one smooth movement. At last it was only John. Their only company was a handful of servants intent on their duties as they passed through the hall. 

“Miss Holmes.” John said, far too formal for Sherlock’s taste. He was leaning hard on his cane again, leave-taking making him remember that he should be using it. “I fear we shall not be able to finish our conversation. I beg your forgiveness.” 

“As well you should. Though I certainly do not.”

“Do not what?”

“Forgive you. Not one bit. But you may go.” Sherlock dismissed him with an abstracted shooing gesture. 

John’s formal smile broke into a grin and the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement. “We shall meet again, I trust.” 

“Indubitably.” 

“Soon.”

John’s insistence took her by surprise, as did his returned flirtations. Sherlock regarded him from down the length of her nose before pursing her lips and nodding. “As soon as possible.” 

“I have your word.”

Suppressing her smile, she offered a regal nod. “You do, Doctor Watson. Now go.” He went, but not without pressing another kiss into both her palms. The contact of his lips on her skin sent a thrill down her spine and she had to work to cling to her detachment. She had finished flirting, he was leaving, and now was not the time, nor here the place, to have the necessary frank discussion. Their exchange had taken only moments, so that when John stepped out, Michael clapped him on the shoulder and said something Sherlock could not catch. 

With John gone and the door firmly shut behind him, Sherlock fled to her laboratory and peered from the open window into the night to find John hailing a hansom cab. He had not been invited to the next stage of their evening, and Michael stood with him at the edge of the street, waiting for his carriage to come round. They made idle chitchat while they waited for their respective vehicles. John’s arrived first and he disappeared into its dark confines and was whisked around the corner as Sherlock watched. 

The two elderly women each leaned on the other and murmured into the other’s ear, but Victoria and Regina loitered closer to the townhouse and their conversation drifted up on the evening air so that Sherlock needn’t strain to eavesdrop. She had chosen her laboratory room for more than its bookshelves. 

Regina said something too quiet to hear. Then, louder, “Oh, Vicky, it’s worse than ever. Do you think she’ll do something rash?” 

“Of course not.” Victoria’s tart disapproval was unmistakable. “Unwise, yes. Libertine, yes. Ruinous, oh indeed, yes. Rash?” She took a breath to add extra emphasis, “No.”

There was a pause before Regina ventured, “Did we do the right thing in bringing him here?” 

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. We shall be able to wash our hands of the whole matter upon the event that something untoward happens, you know that. It is a blessing we are so forewarned and, thus, forearmed. Be prepared.” 

“But I like Sherlock, I wouldn’t want to-”

“Don’t be daft. Or naive. You will do what is necessary, Regina. You’re not as softhearted as you claim.”

“I won’t like it.” The petulance in Regina’s voice was all but agreement. 

With a disgusted sound, Victoria said, “You don’t have to like it. There is not much about self-preservation to like.” 

“It’s all moot if-” 

Victoria cut her off. “Do you really believe that nothing will come of what you saw in there tonight?” 

There was a much longer pause, but when Regina answered she answered with certainty. “No.” Her ‘no’ was an acceptance of Victoria’s assessment - and her solution. Sherlock felt an unwelcome hitch in her breathing and she put a hand over her mouth. 

“Then be practical for once in your life.”

Michael interrupted them with an, “What are you talking about?” as he returned to assist Victoria and her aunt into the just-arrived carriage. A second stood patiently behind, awaiting Regina and her own elderly escort. 

“Nothing, my heart,” Victoria responded, smooth and low, distracting Michael with a hand on the centre of his chest, “Nothing at all. Exited for tonight?” 

“If I can convince you let me sign your dance card more than once, perhaps.”

“Cheeky, Mister Stamford.” Victoria gave him a playful shove and then they were off.

Once they were out of sight, Sherlock let her head drop onto her folded arms where she rested them on the windowsill. So much for worrying about her dear companions. They would protect themselves from her impending fall from grace without sparing a thought. As much as they loved her, or merely tolerated her, their future was at stake as much as hers was.

As a blessing, it was a rather poor one, but she felt freed nevertheless. There was nothing further to plan, only the execution remained.

The lingering sting of hypocrisy on Victoria’s part made the decision even easier. For all the sympathetic revelation that sexual craving in women was common enough despite medical testimony to the contrary, despite Victoria’s reassurances that had extended to the gift of a journal of erotic adventures, there would be no solidarity between them. Sherlock hadn’t expected it, of course. Certainly not. 

At least now she knew that cutting ties would not be traumatic on any of their parts. Each needed to look to themselves in light of the scandal that Sherlock planned. Her fragile alliances would dissolve and none of them would lose even a wink of sleep over the matter. Sherlock would be alone, it would be fine, and she would have secured the independence from societal expectation that she craved. She needn’t think on her friends again. 

Sherlock swallowed against a lump of unpalatable emotion and turned her mind toward a more exciting prospect. Tonight, then. She would find John Watson tonight.


	11. Consent

Molly found Sherlock an Inverness cape and asked no questions as to why she needed one. Between the two of them, they acquired a full outfit by rummaging through closets and trunks and finding a pair of loaner trousers from one of the servants. Only an hour after Sherlock’s dinner party ended, most of that time spent in removing the flowers from her hair and recoiling her braids, she left 221 Baker Street by the front door in full disguise, hat to boots. She left instructions with Molly that Mycroft was to be put off as long as possible when he returned home. 

The cabbie did not so much as bat an eyelash at her regalia when she hailed him several blocks away, just nodded in the direction of the brim of her deerstalker then indicated the door with his chin. Londoners were odd folk as a rule, so her overdress--hat, scarf, and thick coat--for the relative warmth of the summer evening earned no mention, and her clothing was of quality enough that she didn’t look liable to duck out the door without paying her fare. 

Truthfully though, her first clandestine endeavour owed its success as much to luck as skill. She spoke little, smiled somewhat more often than she might otherwise, and kept in mind the simple fact that expectation and confidence were ninety percent of an effective disguise. Women did not wear trousers or wander about unescorted, therefore she was obviously a man. 

She had little difficulty in traversing London to arrive at the boarding house that matched the address Wiggins had given. John’s stories about his trials in securing a place to stay while he recuperated matched the location quite nicely, and the scent in the air echoed that which had clung to the man’s dress earlier at her party. Even better, thanks to her small troupe of efficient irregulars, she had the room number already. A boy stationed at the entrance led her down the correct corridor. 

Here she did get some odd looks as she passed through the lounge and common rooms, though she knew not for what in particular. She resolved to continue her study in assuming a role - this had been thus far been an exhilarating expedition. With that goal filed away, she rewarded the boy who had guided her to the door of John’s room with a coin and, removing her gloves, rapped sharply. 

John opened the door, brows furrowing at the sight of her. He looked her up and down, confusion growing as he took in the hodgepodge costume of workboots, loose faded trousers, buttoned workshirt, and thick belt all beneath an Inverness cape. The dramatic blue scarf that hid her lack of Adam’s apple and the deerstalker that she removed so she could meet his eyes were nearly superfluous. 

Recognition clicked and his jaw dropped. 

Eyes wide, he seized her arm and hauled her bodily into the room. The door thudded shut behind her as he spun her behind him and pressed his ear to the door. Sherlock didn’t bother to hide her grin. She was the one whose legs were scandalously outlined by borrowed trousers. If she were to be caught, it would be because he was making a production of it, not because she passed a half-drunken boarder in the hall. Sherlock covered her mouth with her hand and tried not to laugh. She felt altogether mischievous as she looked down at the back and broad shoulders of the man she’d come to proposition. 

He held his ear against the door for a long minute, hand out to stop her from coming any closer as if she were one of his comrades-in-arms and must needs wait for him to determine whether the enemy had discovered them or no.

By the end of it, Sherlock was tapping her foot and all but rolling her eyes in impatience. Stripping off her outerwear, she deposited them into a pile by the door and said, “Oh, really, John, must you?” 

John straightened, standing at attention with his back to her. He, very visibly, took a deep breath before turning to address her. Every line of his body spoke of tension, and he gave her a very proper nod and greeting, “Miss Holmes.” 

“Come off it.” She told him, abandoning him and his infernal manners by the door. He had an entire room full of things that could tell her absolutely volumes and she wasn’t about to pass up that particular opportunity. Continuing, she said, “You will call me Sherlock. I won’t bite.” 

He had come back to his rooms and shed most of his formal dress. His suspenders hung in loops from his waist, his jacket laid where it had been thrown on the end of the bed, and he was barefoot. The top of his shirt was unbuttoned and his tie hung untied. His cane rested, forgotten, against the desk where a sheet of paper lay half-covered in drying ink and a discarded quill dripped onto the scarred desktop. She went to the desk first and read a few lines. It proved a journal of sorts. The man was eloquent. From his words he was as taken with her as she with him. A good sign. 

John followed her every movement, only the barest flinch telling her of his self-consciousness in being read when she flipped a page in his journal. Caught between her casual attitude and possible unfortunate intrusion, he remained cautious. “Why are you here?”

“A reasonable enough question.” Sherlock plucked the quill from the desk, daubed some ink on her index, and licked it. She grimaced. “Don’t purchase ink from the boarding house next time. It will fade faster than anything I might be able to find for you.” 

“Did you just lick-?” 

“I’m here because I wished to see you,” Sherlock cut him off, taking a seat at the desk and crossing her legs. She rather liked being this physically free, especially since John couldn’t seem to take his eyes off said legs. Twitching an ankle at him, her amusement grew as he looked away for the space of a heartbeat. He was trying so very hard to be proper.

She waited until he licked his lips and made as if to speak before she began. She said, “I wished to see you because I have an offer. You are free to decline or accept without pressure or coercion. Beyond laying out the facts of the matter I will allow you as much time as you need to consider and, if you should decide against me, I will abide by that decision. Do you understand?” 

John worked his jaw, unable to speak past a barrier of complete bafflement. 

Sherlock gave him time. It was a rather unexpected thing to take in. To be perfectly honest, she wouldn’t have been surprised if he asked her to repeat herself. In the end, however, he dropped from attention, locked the door, and sat on the bed.

With a decisive nod in her direction, he said, “I understand. Whatever it is that you need from me, I’m willing to hear you out.” 

“I wish to have sex with you.” Sherlock told him and paused, waiting for his reaction. 

Whatever he had been expecting, it had obviously not been that. After a beat, John started to smile, stopped, squinted at her, opened his mouth, closed it, and leaned back on his hands. He closed his eyes and shook his head with some force. When he opened them once more to stare at her, she was still sitting there smiling at him. 

He found his voice a half-octave lower, and with a husky quality that made her smile again. “I’m flattered,” he said, clearing his throat before he continued, “But- no. Wait- I don’t mean it like I am going to say no, but I just want to ask… why? Why on earth would you- with me? Like this?” 

As prepared as she had been for the question, Sherlock still had a hard time articulating herself. “I am- attracted to you. Even just sitting there, you represent to me what a man should move like, breathe like, and I wish to discover if taste and touch follow suit. I do not, as a rule, crave any such knowledge, and I find myself wondering these things. About you.” Sherlock studied her boots. “You are a novelty, a mystery, and I am having a very hard time sitting on the other side of the room from you when we are absolutely alone and no-one knows where I am.” 

When he said nothing for a long time, she peeked over at where he sat on the bed. John looked rather like he’d just been hit over the head and as he blushed, Sherlock felt heat climb in her own cheeks. 

“I rather don’t know what to say.” John eventually responded. “I could respond in kind, but it would sound a great deal more crude.” 

“Not used to a woman detailing why she might want to indulge in carnal relations with you?” Sherlock retreated to dry humour where it was safe. To her own ears, she sounded almost dismissive, as if her heart hadn’t leapt to a faster tempo at his favourable response. 

The corners of his lips twitched. “Not in the Queen’s English, no. It is, as you say, a novelty.” He sat up and put his hands on his knees. “But you’re asking for an affair? I am discreet, but your brother is… Or is it marriage? I am neither a peer, nor a successful businessman. I’m an army doctor, Miss Holmes, and have nothing to offer.” 

“Here is where you might object.” Sherlock said, losing some of her casual posture as she tried to convey her earnestness. “My family is requiring my marriage. My heritage is favourable and my current living kin are desirable enough as allies that I will be forced to marry against my wishes within the next three years. My brother will find me a match and I will be required to accept it.” 

“That is-” Sherlock continued, contempt for the whole process threading her words. “I will be required to accept it unless I have no value as a bride. I wish neither a quiet affair nor a husband below my station. What I wish is to remain unmarriageable and retain what measure of independence I have enjoyed thus far, even if I am disowned and my fortunes reversed. You will be a participant in a public scandal that will destroy my status and my reputation, likely earn my brother as an enemy, and you will link your name to mine indefinitely and, in all probability, infamously. It is the public nature of this arrangement that I require you to agree to. Your reputation will not take nearly the damage mine will, though your friendship with Mister Stamford may become strained, but you will suffer for a time before you are forgiven your appetites.” 

“That’s your price?” John digested Sherlock’s words with a thoughtful frown. 

“Not a price. An apprisal. I would gladly ruin myself with you regardless, but I really only wish to do this once.” 

“A public scandal.” 

“As public as I can make it. I can’t very well stand atop the palace and shout at the top of my lungs, but everything short.” 

John’s deliberations took an astonishingly short amount of time. Between one heartbeat and the next, his expression cleared and his customary grin returned. “Then I’m willing if you are.” 

His easy agreement threw her off. She tilted her head, leaned forward, and asked, “Pardon?” 

“Sherlock, you’re brilliant, stunning, and I’d be an ass and an idiot to say no. I want you.” The declaration, strong and steady, made her feel quite a bit better about this whole thing. Her unspoken fears dissipated a little more with every word he spoke. “But I’m half invalid and can’t even promise not to collapse during the act. No-one has even looked twice at me since my return to London and -” he paused for long enough that Sherlock raised her eyebrows. He had to take a fortifying breath before he finished, “I’m not used to spending so many nights alone.” 

Sherlock snorted indelicately, “You’ll be fine. I’m sure your stamina will be more than up to the task.” 

“Your faith in me is reassuring.” John’s dry tone told her that he wasn’t joking and she wasn’t listening.

Sherlock frowned and appraised him again, this time taking into account the flicker of the light and the quality of the fuel oil. Tonight’s dinner and travelling had taxed him, the dark circles under his eyes not caused by the angle of lamp. His fingers twitched on the bed and his trousers strained, so he was nothing if not eager, but with his confession of his dry spell it all added up to the likely-hood of a short evening in both performance and endurance. 

“I’ll have a care for you.” Sherlock amended, her tone softening. She then stood, attempting to calculate how much of her compiled list of acts she might be able to accomplish based on the reality of the man’s stamina. “Trust me.” 

John followed her with his eyes as she ostentatiously adjusted the cuffs of her sleeves. The swell of her breasts was readily apparent beneath the fabric of her shirt, the contours of her legs just as easily determined through her trousers, so that John could not settle on one feature as she approached the bed. Just before she reached out to rest a hand against his jawline, he sought her face, dragging his gaze up her body. 

Leaning down, Sherlock kissed him, closing her eyes as soon as she felt certain she could not miss. He met her without hesitation, one of his hands curling around the one she held at his jaw, the other seeking her free hand by running down the full length of her arm, shoulder to wrist.

At the first touch of his lips on hers, all of the theory she had stored away flew quietly out the window. For all that she had initiated, she had absolutely no idea where to go from here. There was only so much that pornographic material could tell her about the moment when flesh met flesh. 

There had, especially, been no emphasis at all on the way that her heartbeat might treble or how she sounded like a winded racehorse when forced to breathe through her nose for an extended period of time. John didn’t seem to mind and he certainly didn’t pull away, but then he’d done this before. Surely such a simple kiss should not be affecting her to this extent. 

Her mind would not stop racing, memorising every nuance of their encounter and keeping her from sinking into the full embrace of sensation. She was lost in the moment, yes, analysis running rampant, but she was not insensible. Was she supposed to be insensible? 

Just as she was about to break it off, he opened his mouth beneath hers and flicked a tongue at her lips. Her eyes popped open, but her brain soon caught up with her body and she sank into the kiss again as a full - if novice - participant, still bent over his upturned face with her nails lightly scratching through his late-evening stubble. 

Sherlock ended the kiss when she wobbled on her feet, breathless and lightheaded. John made a grab for her hips to steady her, hands closing about her waist at the same moment she braced herself on his shoulders. “Good Lord.” She said, sharing a moment of laughter with him. “That was meant to be an experiment. I had not intended tonight to be anything more than securing your consent.” 

“You- you showed up here, dressed how you are, unescorted, and expected what?” John asked, incredulous, as he helped guide her to seat herself next to him on the bed. Being more aware of what she might need at this point than she was, he withdrew so that an inch of air separated their hips before he took her hands and chafed them in his grip. His sure movements and unspoken understanding that she might want to sit and let her lips tingle for a time helped put her at ease. Eyes on her face to read what cues she might offer, he asked, “Are you well?” 

She tightened her fingers compulsively on his, halting his movements. “I am well. Just- breathing at the moment, thank you.” 

John look inordinately pleased with himself at her words, and he took them as an indication that he could tease her, “Shall I remind you to breathe from now on? There’s not much of a trick to this beyond coming up for air every so often.” 

“I suppose. And I should thank you for the reminders, then, too.” She said, her words clipped not out of irritation but uncertainty. Theory and practice and never the twain shall meet. Still, if experience were the only barrier to her knowledge of the practice…

Sherlock shifted on the bed so that their hips were touching. Warmth, pressure, the texture of her trousers caught between them were all very poor descriptors for the mix of fire and chill that made her shiver and want to press into his side. John didn’t move, letting her take what time she needed to become accustomed to him. She was a wild-shy daemon, her impatience rivalled only by her desire not to destroy their rapport. Want and fear of her own expectations bled through her societal mask, and she leaned hard against him, self-conscious of her spare frame and hard angles. 

Still John didn’t pull away. Instead, he wrapped one arm about her shoulders and let her shiver away a measure of her adrenaline. She noted that his embrace left her free to leap to her feet should she require it. Ever so gently, he tried to engage her mind with a question, entirely hypothetical at this point and therefore safe. “What would you have done if I had said no?” 

Her answer came before she thought about how vulnerable it would make her feel, “I would have left. Jaunted back across town. Tried another party. I made plans for another party next week.” As much as she wanted to, she didn’t pull away. “I did not plan for you to say yes. I had nothing established for tonight to further my goals beyond this meeting with you.” A little lie. A partial lie. She had planned a whole fantasy, had played it through time and again, but everything had deviated when her lips had touched his, when John had been John.

Everything now was a great deal better than fantasy, but she had no true map to guide her through her own desire. 

When she said nothing more, John prompted her, “Did you expect me to say no?” 

Anger and arrogance warred with cold practicality as she lifted her chin and told him, “I did.” She had. A fantasy was a fantasy, after all, and her only examples of behaviour resided in the slim volume shared with her by Victoria. The depictions had rung both true and false, and she had no way of knowing if she had separated them aright. 

“But-” John began to protest. 

Sherlock cut him off with a sudden, fierce kiss that he returned, though startled, with equal ferocity. She pulled away again almost immediately, breathing hard, fighting herself so she would not withdraw beneath her customary veil of detachment. She had proved to herself that he still sat beside her, that she still wanted to pursue this course, that another kiss would not be amiss. 

Such proven, she said, “Your only incentive to say yes was whatever small attraction to my body you have.” Her words fell, coldly rational, between them. “It was a gamble, at best, that you would weight that attraction as greater than the full scandal I plan to rain upon us.”

“So a wise man would say no to you.” John still held her hands between them and he began to draw tiny circles on the backs with his thumb. 

“Precisely.” Some contrary part of Sherlock’s nature pursued the topic, unwilling to let it drop and get on with the kissing. She had read nothing of a man confronted with sex that did not pursue the act from the foundation of his baser nature. She could only draw from stories of pressure and protest, and she felt very little like protesting. Nothing in their kiss had made her want to. 

“Sherlock-” The creases between John’s brows were back, disagreeing with an eloquent frown. “I am neither a wise man nor a beast unable to resist the lure of a maiden, but those are not the only choices. If you insist upon being Sherlock for me, can I not simply be John to you?” 

Sherlock was flummoxed. Of course he was John. That was the whole problem. He defied her research, refusing to follow any recognisable course. Still, she nodded. Upon second thought, however, she shook her head, “But that is not what I was implying.” 

“Perhaps not.” John agreed easily. “But that was what I heard, and I would rather make a fool of myself and be wrong than never let it be said at all. Though - at least it means there is hope for the rest of us.” He laughed gently at her puzzlement and explained, “If the inimitable Sherlock Holmes can be so human as to fret over my motives, then those of us further from grace can still aspire to your example and know it not a complete impossibility.” 

With those words, John placed a kiss deliberately on the corner of her mouth, a light peck that had her turning her head instinctively to catch at his lips. When she found herself falling for the trick she halted to stare at him in disbelief. Not only was he reassuring her, he was also still teasing her, playful in a way that she had not seen when they had been tolerating the company of others.

“I did not fret.” Sherlock said, though she felt herself smiling. It was not often that she indulged in a genuine smile, and it buoyed and emboldened her to free her hands and place one decisively on his shoulder. “And I will not.” 

“Is this a suggestion that we continue with your experiment?” John asked, shifting on the bed so he might face her, drawing his near leg up to rest on the coverlet. 

Sherlock pushed forward into the space he had opened between them and kissed him again. This kiss started much as their first had, progressed much more rapidly, and went on nearly as long. She held tight to his shoulder and curved her other hand around the back of his neck, pulling him close. He braced himself on the bed, letting her impulses drive their current union. 

With their kiss, she rewrote her expectations and reclassified fact and fiction to find herself significantly more enthused at the prospect of seeking her pleasure in his arms. She knew that others were full of idiocy, their treatises full of unverifiable opinion, and she’d been a fool to take anything said for an accurate reflection of reality. The most reliable - and enjoyable - research was her own. 

When Sherlock pulled away, warm in her borrowed clothes, she found John bright-eyed and panting just as she was. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and said, “Surely you’re old hat at this.”

“Are you surprised at how enjoyable I find you or are you asking for instruction?” 

“Yes.” 

John took the invitation and she followed his suggestions on how to arrange herself so that she was pressed bodily against him as he lay flat on his back on the bed. There was comfort in John’s touch as she curled to his side and put her chin on his shoulder. She whispered into his ear. “What was the purpose of this?” 

Equally as quiet, he whispered back, “I was about to fall over. You forget-”

“That you’ve already been across London and back tonight.” Sherlock nibbled on his earlobe and when he shivered, she put a hand on his cheek and turned him to face her. “I could leave.” 

That almost made him sit up, tired or no, and she - alarmed - had to put a hand on his chest to prevent him. His volume rose as he said, “Of course not.” 

“Merely a suggestion,” Sherlock pressed him back onto the bed and, levering herself up with an elbow, leaned over and kissed him hard. He ran his hands over her breasts, caressing her modest curves and squeezing lightly. After a pause for her to catch her breath, he began draw little circles with his thumbs around her nipples through the workshirt, recapturing her mouth and pulling her down to him. 

Out of deference to John’s exhaustion and Sherlock’s inexperience both, they kept their movements slow and deliberate. Each flick of his thumb added a hitch to her breath. Each time she scraped her teeth across his lips in a not-quite-bite it prompted him to move a hand to the back of her head and run his fingers over her braids. Without thinking, Sherlock straddled him, feeling the heat of his cock through the fabric of her borrowed trousers. His hips lifted from the bed, arching to meet her. She ground herself against him and was just starting to wish she’d worn a dress for easier access when there was a knock at the door. 

At the knock, John tried to continue, but Sherlock froze, whispering a quiet curse against his lips. She listened to the rustle of someone fiddling with their coat on the other side of the door and cursed again, drawing a chuckle from John for her foul language. She certainly shouldn’t know any of those words, which made them more than appropriate for the occasion. 

“Maybe they’ll leave.” John offered, shifting his hands to lie flat against her back. 

Her breasts grew chilled with their absence and she made a small, frustrated noise under her breath. Pursing her lips, she gave a small shake of her head. “It’s my brother.” 

John, a quick study, did not ask how she knew. “What do you need me to do?” 

“Let me deal with it. He’ll catch wind of part of what I aim to do and attempt to outmanoeuvre me.”

“So this is goodnight, then?” John’s wistful question made Sherlock kiss him again, losing precious seconds that she could be using to improvise. A warm, slow burn had settled at the juncture of her legs and she regretted that she would not be able to investigate that particular curiosity tonight. 

“I planned to be at a party next week.” Sherlock said quietly as she came up for air and started clambering off the bed, “You will receive an invitation. We will rendezvous there. Prepare for a strenuous evening.” She began to collect her overthings. 

Her coat and scarf were on before John could sit up and she settled her deerstalker over her braids just as another knock sounded. This one was far more impatient and was followed by a, “I know you’re in there.” 

At least Mycroft had the sense to refrain from names. If he made a scene, everyone and their brother would be listening at their own keyholes. 

John sat at the edge of the bed, bare feet just brushing the floor and bemused expression on his face, as he watched her ready herself to go. “You’re real, aren’t you?” He asked, a smile in his voice. 

“Of course not.” Sherlock told him. “Accept the invitation. I shall see you there.”

Disguised and overwarm, Sherlock pulled open the door just as Mycroft was about to knock again. Wedging herself around his bulk, she passed him without a word, expecting him to follow. Instead, she heard her brother say something to John. She did not wait to find out what it was. 

Sherlock exited onto the street. It was well past dark enough that she drew no attention. She clambered into the familiar carriage sitting by the curb after offering a small salute at the driver. He gave her a puzzled look, but Mycroft was always one for strange doings, so he did no more than put a finger to his cap in reply. If he recognised the Inverness cape he said nothing. In any case, Molly didn’t start screaming when Sherlock sat down next to her and thus Sherlock was probably meant to be aboard. 

“Molly.” Sherlock said, very carefully not looking at her maid. “He asked you the address straight out, didn’t he?” 

“No, Miss. He had to bribe a cabbie for that information.” Molly had a right to sound defencive, and she spoke with a quiet urgency as if their driver would overhear, “Your urchin boy didn’t tell me, he told you. Nobody told me, so that’s what I said. Nobody told me. He asked if you’d told me. He didn’t ask me if I knew.” Molly almost put a hand on the sleeve of Sherlock’s cloak, but hesitated a finger-width above the fabric and thought better of it. “You’ve been gone hours. He didn’t know about the disguise, either, just that you didn’t take Mrs. Hudson or me and you went to visit Mister Watson.” 

“Doctor.” Sherlock corrected, though her heart wasn’t in it. She relented, pulling off her cap and rubbing a hand across her eyes. “Thank you, Molly. Even a few hours is more than I had hoped for.”

Molly relaxed, a blush rising to her cheeks. “I did my best.” She then stared at her hands, letting the carriage fill with silence before took a noisy breath and asked, her words tumbling over themselves, “Did you find what you went looking for?” 

“I believe I did,” Sherlock allowed herself a moment of triumph. “You should be seeing a great deal more of the good Doctor.” 

Molly recovered from the shock of the bold pronouncement more swiftly than Sherlock thought her capable. “Oh! Good. Good then.” She nodded to herself. “Best know before you start everything, though I’m not sure that question required borrowing clothes. I’m glad, though. For you. He seems like a good man…” She trailed off and closed her eyes. They both knew she was blathering. She finally said, “I don’t know what throwing away your virtue will do for you, I don’t. I don’t like it, and I know I’m talking out of turn but- I’ll help as much as I can. I’m yours. Even beyond this. Just- be careful.” 

There was a clatter at the door and Molly leaned in toward Sherlock as Mycroft entered the carriage and gave the pair a look of suspicion. She lowered her voice so that only Sherlock could hear, “I also won’t tell the driver you’re wearing his trousers if you won’t.” 

The carriage pulled away from the curb at Mycroft’s signal. He halted their conversation with an imperious, “I’ve purchased the silence of the owner of this little establishment, though I’m gratified to say that your ridiculous charade left him more confused than scandalised. I daresay your gender remained concealed in all public spaces, at least. He thinks you a wayward youth. Which brings me to ask,” he fixed Sherlock with a disgusted glower, “What are you wearing?” 

“Trousers.” Sherlock could be equally as pompous as her brother. She turned her head to the side and stubbornly refused to acknowledge his displeasure. “And a cap. You’ve seen them before, I’m sure.” 

Molly snuck a hand into Sherlock’s grasp, and Sherlock wove their fingers together. Her maid was ostensibly offering comfort, but her hand trembled. Mycroft could overrule Sherlock and send Molly on her way, and this conspiracy of theirs touched on his interests in a more than superficial way. For all that Sherlock had hired and trusted Molly as was ostensibly in charge of her employ, the master of the house was not one for a maid to offend. 

Mycroft pursed his lips in displeasure, then said, “Any further excursions will see both Molly and Mrs. Hudson as your escorts.” 

“Is that all?” Sherlock asked, squeezing Molly’s hand to reassure her. “Because that seems a mere slap on the wrist.” 

“Molly and Mrs. Hudson will report your movements to me in their entirety. They, in tandem, will be able to prevent whatever you’ve planned with that man.” Mycroft may have mentioned Molly, but he otherwise ignored her presence, and the maid remained very still. 

“Be that as it may-” Sherlock began. 

Mycroft interrupted. “I will have no scandal in my house, Sherlock. This- whatever this was is a step too far. I have been lenient. I have funded you. I have indulged you. All in an effort to keep you at least passingly tractable long enough to find you a suitable match. This will end. No further purchases. No further funds. No further coddling. You leave me no choice.” 

After a long moment, Sherlock nodded in acquiescence, her jaw tight as she tried to dampen her anger. “I am not leaving London, then?” The question implied she would vastly rather be gone from the wretched city, though now that meant leaving John behind. It surprised her to be worried not only about her grand scheme, but the promised evening with her almost-lover. 

“I should send you away. If any of your escapades become public, I will. I’m ashamed for you, since you don’t seem to have an ounce of shame for yourself.” Mycroft rubbed at his temples. His face was becoming more florid, which gave Sherlock some small satisfaction. Angry Mycrofts thought less clearly.

When her brother continued, however, he had taken several breaths and found a reserve of calm. “You will not jeopardise your prospects by meeting strange men in their rooms under the cover of darkness. Dressed like a man. Bloody hell. Are you trying to destroy my credibility?” 

“Of course not.” Sherlock had nothing more to say that wasn’t rude or insubordinate. 

“I’ve invested too much in this bloody season to release you back to the estate. Everything you do from now on will be focused on attracting a suitable husband, not courting scandal. Whatever this was tonight would be enough to ruin you were not I here.” Mycroft’s exasperation became clear, “Do you have no care at all for your family?” 

Sherlock did not answer. Mycroft sighed and turned his attention to her maid who was still clutching Sherlock’s hand and trying not to breathe too loudly. Despite his choler, Mycroft was not unkind when he said, “Molly. You will protect Sherlock from herself. Do you understand?” 

Staring at her lap, Molly nodded quickly. Sherlock closed her eyes. Molly was hers, yes, but a direct order from the Lord Holmes was going to make things slightly more complicated. 

But only slightly.


	12. Lost

John spent the week thinking about what Sherlock’s brother had said to him. Lord Holmes’s warning to stay away from his sister had been expected, as had the admonition for John to set his sights lower when hunting for a wife. What John had not been expecting was the addendum to take care with her. It wasn’t a threat, though it could easily have been. Instead the comment had held the raw protectiveness of an elder brother dealing with a young woman who did not know the meaning of caution. The Lord Holmes made clear he knew Sherlock would be seeing John again whatever her marching orders. 

Stepping from his hired cab John stared up at the manor house before him. Sherlock had secured them both invitations to a late-season fete, though he knew not how. He could not help but feel himself a fraud in his second-hand suit. Lord Holmes’s assumption that he was on the hunt for a wealthy wife to rescue him from his invalid state said a great deal about how these people viewed him. It was an offencive assumption, but the more John thought about it the more plausible it looked from any perspective other than his own. 

Here he was, however, at Sherlock’s behest, and whatever part he played in her charade was going to be as simple and dishonourable as Lord Holmes’s best guess. No virtuous man would take advantage of such an innocent.

Except - Sherlock had something of the devil in her, as any who would had met her would attest. Any attacks on his character would pale in the light of Sherlock’s oddities, and it pained him that she would most certainly be condemned for no other reason than she dared to pursue her own pleasure. 

John rubbed his face, using the motion to banish his thoughts. He had given Sherlock both his agreement and his trust. He just wished he could give her what she wanted without the scandal it entailed.

In contrast to his anxious thoughts, the ball filled the mansion with light and laughter and the rustle of fabric. An orchestra played in a balcony above the dance floor and the sweet strains of a popular dance guided a dozen enthusiastic young people through their forms. The entire room glittered and spun, and the sheer amount of jewels, lace, and fashionable coiffures made John a little dizzy. Though- that could be a result of the overabundance of perfume saturating the air. He felt a bit ill. 

Could one be sick with want? For all that he’d had an extra week to stew in his own thoughts, doubt had never crossed his mind. This aroused anticipation was going to be the end of him. 

Worse were women who eyed him speculatively, escorts and wives and others who did not seem to fear for their reputations. Irony that on the night he already had an assignation he finally received the attention of the fairer sex. Perhaps they had a sixth-sense when it came to how enthusiastic he might be. He was half-hard just standing in line to be introduced to the debutante, a sharp eye out for Sherlock. 

The name of the young woman honoured by the party flew in one ear and out the other. He greeted her genially, smiled, and quickly retreated to a chair to save his strength. Nothing so much as hiding, he avoided participating in the festivities. He had no-one to introduce him to the dancers, at any rate. 

Sherlock, ultimately, was not difficult to spot. She was wearing the same purple dress as the first night he’d seen her, though she had added ruby accents that caught fire in the light of the chandeliers. Her hair was up off her neck and he watched her offer her respects to the evening’s debutante with a precise curtsy and dip of her head. 

She was beautiful, every line of her drawn with those strokes the Creator seemed to reserve for the caged and dangerous. Like a cat, she carried an awareness about her that she was being observed, admired, and perhaps disdained. And much like a cat, she did not care. 

After abandoning the line, Sherlock did not pause to find him. Instead, she made for a corner door set into the filigreed wall of the ballroom. The egress was not hidden, not precisely, but cleverly set within the repeating panels. When she disappeared beyond, Mrs. Hudson and Molly filtered from the crowd. As Mrs. Hudson was about to go through the door, Molly stopped her and leaned in close. 

Without thinking, John stood to follow. It proved more difficult to cross the dance floor than he had anticipated. In the time he’d been sitting, the ballroom had filled with painted and bejewelled youths. He nearly trod on some poor woman’s foot and her ready glare followed until he darted through a cluster of guests at the edge of the floor. Mrs. Hudson strode off as he approached. He made sure to duck behind a woman with very wide shoulders so she wouldn’t catch sight of him. 

Sherlock had disappeared so swiftly after her introduction in the receiving line that he doubted many knew she was here. It seemed a flaw in her plan to be invisible this way, but perhaps it meant she was as eager as he. 

He intended to slip past Molly, but she spotted him almost immediately and stepped in close. She spoke to him in a whisper and indicated the concealed door “In there.” 

“Mrs. Hudson?” He asked, turning with Molly to watch the older woman disappear down a corridor with a handful of other servants. “Surely she wouldn’t want-” 

“Miss Sherlock has something planned,” Molly interrupted him. It became very clear to him that she knew precisely what he was up to. “And Mrs. Hudson has her orders straight from Lord Holmes.” 

“Then I should go.” John felt a hot spear of disappointment. “He placed two escorts on Sherlock for a reason.” 

“Wait-” Molly stopped him with a light touch on his elbow as he turned to go. “Mrs. Hudson only said ‘I remember being young once’ before she walked off. I- I don’t think she agrees with the master.” 

“How could she not?” John could not quite fathom why a respectable woman like her would even go along with something like this. Counting on the elderly housekeeper to be perfectly accepting of an act of blatant sin made this whole meeting all the more puzzling. “This is all very tenuous.” 

“Sherlock is-” Molly paused to swallow and glance around to make sure no-one overheard, “placing a great deal of faith in us. The Lord Holmes has her under lock and key when she is not participating in season events.” 

John leaned heavily on his cane, “But surely…” 

“Go speak with her.” Molly angled toward the door. “I have none of your answers.” 

The door led to a plain corridor sparsely lined with lamps. A young man in fine livery passed him, appearing suddenly from a connecting corridor and trotting through the door into the ballroom. A burst of unmuted conversation accompanied its opening and closing.

John stepped from the narrow hall into a closet filled with wraps and overcoats. Sherlock waited there, tapping her foot, her hand wrapped around the doorknob on the far wall. He did not get a chance to do more than smile before she pulled the door open and beckoned him through, saying, “I should have had us meet earlier, but this was the best option I had to make the scandal take. There are a few further elements I could align, but-” 

The door led to yet another hallway. The manor proved to be as massive in the interior as it had appeared from the street and quite spacious enough to support any number of relations and their entire entourages. This particular hallway was lined with expensive-looking vases, portraits, and other objects del arte. It was a sight classier than Sherlock’s collection, though when John spotted one of those ugly little carven men, he reassessed. The presentation was classier, not the objects being presented. 

“Come along, John.” Sherlock told him, reaching back to grasp his hand and sending a tingle of shock and pleasure through the joining. She set out for the far end of the hall more quickly than he could limp along and he ended up simply carrying the cane and hurrying in her wake. A sense of urgency overtook him. He felt as young and randy as a student.

The hall terminated in a pair of double doors that led somewhere interesting, no doubt, but Sherlock ignored them and pushed an adjacent curtain aside. As they stepped from the thick runner that lay down the centre of the hall, their click of their soles on bare marble sounded loud in the otherwise quiet. 

Behind the curtain was a small seating area with a brazier in the centre of a circle of couches and divans. Sherlock assessed the room with a quick glance before dropping his hand and saying, “I had hoped to do this in a bed of some sort, but this will have to do. The most efficient use of our time is to both deflower me and offend somebody at the same time. You do understand how intolerably rude we are being, do you not?” 

John caught his breath after their rush. Old hereditary manors were full of surprises. What purpose the room and the hall beyond had originally served, they served no longer. The overstuffed couches were covered in fine silks and the walls panelled with a dark, smooth wood. A depression in the floor near one corner had been covered with a lounge and filled with a small chest. 

Sherlock said nothing more and a faint touch of awkwardness reminded him that she could very well be waiting for an answer to her question. He quickly said, “Yes, of course. I don’t think rude begins to cover it. If you’re looking to offend someone, you could do worse than this.”

Moving away and folding her arms across her chest, Sherlock put a couch between them and cast a critical eye over the furnishings. “Molly should give us enough time. It is imperative that the evidence of my disgrace is irrefutable. My brother will do everything in his power to protect me.” 

John stood on the far side of the couch and running his fingers along handle of his cane over and over. It was a busy gesture, not a nervous one, something to keep his hands occupied while he resisted throwing himself across the room. He took deep breaths, because while he was fairly certain that open desire would not frighten Sherlock away, he wanted to make very sure of their time together. She had so much more at stake than he did. He asked, “Are you sure?” 

“Of course he will. I’ll set his plan for Parliament back by several years.” 

It took John a moment to catch up. “Ah- no. That wasn’t-” he freed a chuckle over the misunderstanding, “I mean with this, here. Now. I want my hands all over you, but if you’re not sure…” 

Sherlock’s expression of baffled disbelief told him his answer even before she recovered enough to tell him, “Obviously. We’re here, aren’t we?” 

“Then-” John looked pointedly at the couch between them. 

Sherlock followed his look and sighed noisily, unfolding her arms and placing her hands very deliberately on the back of the couch. “Then,” she echoed, repurposing the word as a challenge, “What are you doing all the way over there?” 

Empty brazier or not, the room grew warmer as John backed Sherlock against the wall. He closed his hands about her hips and pressed their lips together, the unexpected ferocity of the kiss and sudden backward motion leaving her clutching at his shoulders for balance. Their kiss ended when he pressed Sherlock’s spine against the panelling. 

Pulling her head up, she drew a sharp breath and her nails dug into his shoulders. He could read uncertainty in her tense muscles. He softened his grip and asked, “Good?” as he placed kisses up the line of her jaw to just below her ear, taking advantage of her exposed throat as she made her determination whether or not to remain as they were. She was slighter, yes, but taller, and the wall would give them balance. 

He could almost see the rabbit of her thoughts racing behind her eyes as he searched her face. “Better.” She finally said, slipping her hands beneath the lapels of his jacket and skimming it from his shoulders. He scraped his teeth across the skin at the hollow of her throat, her warm breath close in his ear as it sped with his touch. 

She sank into his hold, tucking her chin to kiss him again and edging her toes to either side of his feet. The smooth fabric of her dress and its many folds sliding against each other made it difficult to shift his grip to take more of her weight. He tried, though, and silk rasped against silk.

Her knees slid up his hips until she was supported only by his hands. There were too many layers between them, but she pulled him to her anyways - his unreleased cock against her fabric-covered heat - hooking her heels behind his knees. The solid heels of her boots threatened the fragility of his joints if he did not fit himself as close as possible. 

Their mouths opened and tongues met, and through instinct or devilry, she nipped at his lip when they pulled apart to breathe. 

His eyes fluttered open to find her face level with his. She was slipping down the wall, eyes bright with mischief, laughing as he lost his grip. Holding her off the ground by force of will alone wasn’t going to work, and the force which he’d backed her against the wall weakened the more involved with exploring her mouth and body he became. 

Sherlock braced herself with one foot on the ground, her other leg holding him tight to her. He did his part as well, shifting to steady her by cupping her arse through her skirt and boosting her up again. 

Once more stable, she kissed him, holding tight to the back of his neck and tipping her head down to capture his mouth and steal his breath. Lips to lips and tongue to tongue, he could feel her struggle against her corset with every inhale. The stays creaked like the panels he pushed her against. 

His tie tightened around his neck briefly before the knot - a knot he’d spent longer than he cared to admit getting perfect - released. The buttons beneath were the work of a moment once Sherlock applied her clever fingers to the cause, and then she was stroking the skin above his carotid artery, hovering briefly over his pulse before continuing her effort to see him disrobed before she. 

He wanted her naked before him, no matter how awkward their discovery would be. He brushed through the wispy hairs on the back of her neck as he sought the buttons that marched down the back of her dress. 

She shivered and he smiled into her lips. 

She pulled away and asked, “What is it?”

His smile had not gone unnoticed, and he was finding that Sherlock was not one to let something unexpected pass her by.

With his fingers, he demonstrated, brushing his thumb across her collarbone as he reached behind her neck to loosen her dress. He dipped a finger inside her dress, between collar and skin, and traced the edge of the fabric, rough fingertips catching on the silk. Sherlock made a low sound in her throat, half pleasure and half surprise. 

When she smiled again, her expression held a feral edge. “You are laughing at me?”

“At what I can make you do.”

“I see.” Sherlock said no more than that, and it was the only warning John got before she ground her hips against him, leg tightening so that he could not back away. The motion sent the rough fabric of his pants across his restrained cock as she levered her pelvic bone into his. He was hard with anticipation and completely unprepared, so that when the jolt of pleasure and surprised pain crackled along his nerves, he jerked away. 

“Dammit.” John swore and pushed her hips back against the panels with a thump. “Warn a man.” 

Sherlock smiled slowly, studying him as they both caught their breath. When he leaned in for another kiss, however, she kept a distance between them with a thumb in the hollow at the base of his throat. He strained against her light hold, kissing whatever part of her arm he could reach. She observed and whatever she saw in him seemed to satisfy. Her smile grew broader. “I’ll warn you.” 

At last, she lifted her restraint and he could kiss his way up her neck and nibble at her earlobe. 

She braced herself with one palm flat against the wall behind her and began to toy with the newly-exposed skin of his upper chest, alternating between drawing lines with her nails and featherlight brushes against his pulse-points until he responded with a shudder of his own. When he did, she bent and followed her fingers with her tongue, memorising the dips and curves of his neck by taste as well as touch. The sensation flooded his mind, dimming their surroundings until all he could see was her. He was dizzy with want, his heart yet unused to beating as rapidly as it was. 

He freed one of her breasts after the last required button popped loose and pulled it above her corset to rest in his palm. Brushing a thumb across her nipple, he followed the curve of her breast with a reverent touch. He felt rough as a rasp against the satin of her formerly-untouched breasts. From the flutter of her eyelids, though, she seemed to enjoy it. When he squeezed gently, she arched against the wall behind her, pushing her breasts up, wordless and insistent. He drew circles around her exposed areola, enjoying the subtle response of her body when he alternated between a stroking touch and one just light enough to tickle. 

Too intent on teasing her, he forgot himself and sucked a faint bruise into the flesh of her neck, to which she responded by threading her fingers through his hair and sending tingles down his spine. When she curled her nails into his scalp, he bowed his head to follow the warm, sharp angles of her shoulder with his lips.

John trailed kisses down the plane of her chest and bit gently into the top of her breast. The quiet curse she rewarded him with inspired another, harder bite, which in turn drew forth a louder curse followed immediately by a breathless laugh. 

“Savagery, John?” 

He soothed the bitemarks with a kiss before shifting to lave her breast with his tongue. Her amusement trailed off as she once more lost her deepest breaths to her corset laces. When the fingers she had been running through his hair stilled for her to concentrate on breathing, he stopped and simply held her upright. If he were becoming fatigued from their standing pleasures - and he was, though if he ignored it he could say it was only a little - then a becorseted Sherlock must surely as well. 

It took long enough that John began to become concerned before Sherlock found the breath to say, “Unlace me.”

“There’s a couch.” He suggested, holding out his arm that he might escort her. “M’Lady might find it more amenable, especially if I might take care of those-” 

She accepted his arm, as remote and regal as Diana the Huntress with her breasts half-bared and her face flushed with pleasure. Her hair had come undone and fell about her shoulders in tangled coils that held tight to dozens of ruby and amethyst chips. Her dress hung loose over the offending corset, but when he went to release her he was confronted with more buttons and laces than he knew their purpose. He had to first finish releasing her from the form-fitting upper dress before he could even attempt to get her a little bit of breathing room. 

It probably did not speed things that he kept dropping kisses along the top of her shoulders during the attempt, but soon enough he had peeled her dress away and worked a finger beneath her laces. When she took her first deep breath of the evening he felt the tension flow from her. After a handful more breaths, readjusting to a world where she had room for both her lungs to expand as well as all of her internal organs, she dragged him to the couch and threw herself on top of him, knees on either side of his hips.

As quickly as that, they recommenced where they had left off, and no one was more surprised than John at her enthusiasm. Her hands went to the front of his trousers to unbuckle his belt and fight with the buttons there. John laughed and didn’t help, instead toying with her exposed breasts with the backs of his knuckles. He soon wished he had helped, however, because Sherlock gave up on unfastening him properly and popped the buttons clean off. 

“I don’t have another-” John protested, but Sherlock covered his mouth with hers and pulled his length free to rest hard against her hand. 

Sherlock circled her fingers about his shaft and explored his responses with a series of short, experimental strokes. Whether she meant to or not, their position - mouths locked together, hot and wet - meant that what moans she drew from him were muted. 

She seemed to have no goal but to torture him, her fingers straying to comb through the curls at the base of his cock, to brush across his balls, and to run a thumb across the head. She simply touched and toyed with him, and his member strained and twitched in her grasp. 

Pulling her mouth from his and abandoning his prick to bob against his lower belly, bereft of her warm touch, she leaned in to whisper, “Shall we see what dire consequences await us?”

John answered by reaching down to seek her ankles and follow the line and curve of her legs and hip. Burrowing both hands beneath her voluminous skirts, he gently parted her thighs and sought the damp, curly-haired mound hidden only by simple lacing. With his index, he traced the edges of her lower lips slick with her own juices, teasing her by drawing his fingers up the slit between. She shivered, then froze, supporting herself above him with an arm on either side of his head. Her expression shifted to one of impatience.

“What’s that look for?” He asked, amusement heavy in his voice as he brushed a thumb across the nub that made her shudder again. 

“Can you go no faster?” 

Laughing, John buried a finger to the knuckle inside of her. “I could.” For a moment, he genuinely thought Sherlock would bite him as her face contorted with something not quite like pain. “But I don’t want to hurt you.” He added a second finger and counted himself fortunate that she appeared too preoccupied with sorting out how she felt about the intrusion to realise he was talking about what pain might accompany her virginity. It was his turn to play with her as she could do little more than brace herself above him while he dipped slick fingers in and out with greater speed, fucking her with his fingers. 

As he held her up and open and she kept herself upright, there were no spare hands to tend his cock. Even still: he felt awake, alive to the very tips of his toes, so that every brush of her skirts and buff of cool air from the surrounding room left him panting in want and anticipation. The lust settled low in his belly, like the contented burn of an excellent whisky.

He brushed his thumb across those points and folds which has previously earned him an impatient, wordless demand to hear her catch her breath in surprise as her hips pulled her from his touch. She began to meet him halfway, her hips working as he slid his fingers inside of her again and again.

Watching the colour in her irises thin to rings, he shifted his grip on her thigh and judged her ready for him. Her shoulders glistened with sweat and when he lifted to capture her lips, he tasted the salt of their exertions. John curled wet fingers around the head of his prick as he stroked her thigh with his other hand, attempting to manoeuvre both of them to meet. 

Guiding her proved difficult enough, because Sherlock took that moment to seize upon his cock and he nearly dropped from the couch in surprise. Their hands tangled as he pulled her skirts out of the way of their joining and both he and she tried to guide him. 

“Let me.” Sherlock, batting him away from his own cock. 

“I’m not going to miss-” He began to tease her, but cut off at the sound of footsteps on stone. Someone was close enough outside of the small, curtained room that the click-click of their heels sounded loud against the backdrop of their heavy breathing. He froze to listen as the footsteps halted, but Sherlock startled him by snorting in laughter and not pausing for a moment in lowering herself onto his member. He tried to shush her.

“We are trying to get caught,” she pointed out, the ragged edge to her breath reminding him that no matter their audience, they were in the middle of something. Then the walls of her cunt closed around the head of his cock and all thoughts of an audience became vastly less important. Holding onto her hips, he helped control her descent by inches, fascinated by expressions playing across her face. Her eyelashes fluttered, her lips parted, and she lifted her chin as if throwing her head back would change how quickly she might fit him inside. 

In that moment, she was more than gorgeous; she was nothing less than transcendental. Her face flushed and eyes glassy, she looked nevertheless triumphant when she tucked her chin to her shoulder, locked eyes with him and bared her teeth in a fierce grin. John lost what little emotional distance he might have held. Everything she was trying to do, what this meant for her - and perhaps him - struck at his heart like a hammerblow. He absorbed it all: her independence and eccentricity, her grace and disgrace, and the utter joy which shone on her face when he was at last fully inside of her. 

They rested briefly, and John could barely breathe for fear of jostling her and drawing lines of pain upon her brow. He was not small and she- 

Sherlock was the first of them to move, shifting her hips and drawing a low moan from John. It was the sign he had been waiting for, though, and he started to fuck her gently with a slight buck of his hips that she responded to in kind. They fell into a slow rhythm, parting only briefly at the apex of each thrust. Once she had picked up their cadence, he pushed through the barrier skirts that hid her from him and caressed the sensitive flesh at the top of her cleft with his fingers.

Falling forward, Sherlock made as if to brace herself upon his shoulders and when he took her weight he hid a wince. Though, it seemed, not well enough. 

The light of understanding lit behind her eyes and she kissed his nose so that he might smile in spite of himself. He did, then found her lips for just long enough for their teeth to knock together when he thrust into her. Sherlock’s breathless laugh rang out, dampened only by the thick curtains and the dark panels upon the walls. 

John began to thumb circles upon the nub hidden within her slick folds and her mind turned inward upon the sensation. She began to grow taut, her back arching, and despite his efforts to keep a pace at which she might not damage herself, she sped their rhythm. 

He sank into her, thrusting harder and deeper as she encouraged him with her hips. She was bringing him closer to the edge the faster she pushed them and his wits fled entirely. He might come inside of her if he did not pull away in time, but he could not stop his thrusts even if he wished to. Her face, contorted in pleasure, held the stopped-heart look of a woman upon the precipice, a bare moment away from freefall. Even if he were to come in the very next second, he could not leave her bereft upon the edge. 

As John met the roll of her hips with a hard thrust, her scream took him completely by surprise. Whether through concentration or inexperience, they had been more quiet than was his wont, but there was no mistaking her orgasm, nor her impressive set of lungs. If no one had heard them before, it would be a marvellous thing if no one heard them now. Her eyes flew open and she trailed off into breathy whimpers. He stilled his thrusting and left only his thumb in movement as she rode the aftershocks, clutching at his shoulders with her nails. 

Her inner muscles working his cock sent him to the edge in the space of a heartbeat and he pulled from her, spilling his seed upon his own belly in hot spatters. His heart thundered till he thought it would burst as he shuddered his way through his climax. Sticky ropes of come soiled her skirts and the velvet couch beneath them, but John could do little more than pant and let the pleasure course, muscles bunching and releasing, a tingling warmth radiating across his skin. 

The gasp she had given as he withdrew echoed in his ears, but when he could breathe again and opened his eyes Sherlock was watching him with a smug smile. She lowered her wet slit to rest on his cock and left it there, content simply rub against him. His hand was still between her legs and he wiggled his fingers to make her squeak in a most undignified fashion. 

“We don’t have to stop.” He twitched his fingers again suggestively and she laughed, though she had little breath to back up the sound. 

Sherlock’s eyes sparkled. “I rather think we’re overdue to be caught, don’t you?” 

“Ah.” Though John didn’t consider himself an exhibitionist, he had forgotten about the footsteps.

When he pulled his hands from beneath her skirt, Sherlock wrapped his arms around her and slipped down on the couch to rest next to him, kissing the exposed skin at his collar. Then, she raised her voice, “Molly? Has the maid gone to find our hostess yet?” 

John was speechless. 

“No, Miss.” A few moments after the reply he heard the click of boot heels on stone once more and the curtains shielding them from the gallery shifted a fraction. “As far as I know, she hasn’t been on her rounds yet.” 

He found Sherlock watching his face while Molly replied. When Sherlock spoke again, she kept her eyes on him, “Molly.” He couldn’t discern the emotion behind the words. “Have you ever known the ginger girl to neglect her party night tasks?” 

Defiance, this time. “No, Miss.” 

John tried to move, to slip from the couch, but Sherlock would not release his arms. She lay sprawled half across his torso, her skirts in a disarray and her loosened corset digging into his ribs. 

“Did you have something to do with her shirking in sudden and unexpected ways?” 

“No, Miss.” 

“Is Mrs. Hudson having a chat with her in the kitchens?” 

“Yes, Miss.” Molly’s defiance held a hint of tears.

John made a noise of protest. “Sherlock. Don’t make her cry.”

Putting her head down on his chest, Sherlock began to laugh. She laughed until tears trickled down her cheeks and dampened John’s rumpled shirt. With absolutely no idea what was going on, John simply held her as his pleasure faded and his spend dried. 

The curtains twitched again, but Molly did not enter. Instead, she ventured, “Miss?”

Sherlock trailed off into giggles and rolled off the couch, leaving John exposed and suddenly cold without her weight and her skirts. The whole alcove smelled of sex and sweat. 

John tucked himself back in as Sherlock tugged her loosened corset straight. “Come in, Molly, for God’s sake. If she’s not going to show up, she’s not going to show up.” 

Hurriedly, John laced himself back up as Molly peeked in, understandably tentative. He was in disarray, but decent, but she still entered with trepidation at the reaction of her mistress. Sherlock, for her part, stood in an aura of mirth that had her shaking her head every few moments as whatever thought that had caused her so much amusement reoccurred and set her off again. 

“Molly, come here.” Sherlock beckoned, turning to present her back to her maid as she did so, “Lace me up again, would you? The good Doctor had a terrible time simply getting me out of them. Do be a dear.” 

There was an edge to Sherlock’s voice that John didn’t understand, though from the tense, pinched look on Molly’s face she certainly did. 

He buttoned his shirt and retied his tie, though it came out somewhat lopsided. He was presentable in a much shorter time that Sherlock. Every glance Molly threw him, and she threw him quite a few, made her blush. He offered her an awkward smile back, but did not say anything further. 

The couch was a lost cause. Whatever servant who discovered it would have their work cut out for them. John felt a bit guilty about that, but only a bit. This was not something he’d done before - in another person’s house with the expectation of getting caught. 

Except, they hadn’t gotten caught. Listening to Molly and Sherlock’s low conversation, he found his explanation. 

“Mistress,” Molly said, subdued and speaking to the nape of Sherlock’s neck, “You getting caught might have been your plan, but neither I nor Mrs. Hudson could just… let it happen in good conscience.” 

“I could easily call this a betrayal, Molly. You lied to me. You are mine and you lied to me.” Sherlock sounded neither angry nor sad. If anything, she still sounded amused. Cold, but amused nevertheless. Turning as the last button of her overdress was fastened, Sherlock caught Molly’s chin in her hand. John almost stepped forward to intervene, but the two women froze in the tableau. Sherlock’s next words were whispered. “It seems we have different ideas of what is best for me.” 

John averted his eyes and found his suit jacket, listening as hard as he could, though he felt more and more like an intruder the longer they stood unmoving. 

At last, Molly replied. “We do.” 

Sherlock was once more in motion, releasing Molly and instructing her to help arrange her skirts and make sure everything was as satisfactory as it could be. “We’ll just have to leave my hair,” she said, pulling at a ruby chip in one tangled lock. “It’s best left down, regardless. I have a stop to make before I leave. Find Mrs. Hudson and tell her to stop monopolising that young woman’s time.” 

Hesitating at the curtains, Molly turned to ask, “Are you angry?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock didn’t sound angry, but Molly looked away all the same, collapsing in upon herself. Sherlock continued, “And at the same time, no. I now know where your loyalty lies.” 

“With you.” The maid blurted the words. A heartbeat later, Molly looked at John and turned several shades of unflattering fuchsia. 

Sherlock smiled. “Yes. Precisely. Now go.” Blushing furiously, Molly left. 

As the curtain swung shut behind her, John could no longer withhold his curiosity, “But your plan- the scandal-” 

“-has only begun.” Sherlock gave John a one-shouldered shrug, careless and relaxed as she circled back to him to run a gentle finger down his jaw. “Molly loves me too dearly to truly be the fulcrum upon which my entire plan hinges. That should be obvious. Tonight would have been an elegant and expedient way to insult one of the _ton_ and finish what I’ve begun, but do you truly think that I would rest my hopes upon the two women most invested in protecting my reputation, if not my virtue?” 

“Then-” John cut off and stared at Sherlock. 

“We have someone I need to greet before we leave.” She explained no further, just linked her arm with his and pulled him back through gallery and hall. They paused at the door that would let them out into the crowds and adjusted themselves to look somewhat presentable. There was nothing to be done about the button on John’s pants, but his belt held them up well enough. The mark he’d sucked into her neck was already fading. She pulled on gloves she hadn’t been wearing when she arrived. “I’m supposed to be trying not to get caught.” Sherlock explained as she straightened John’s collar and smoothed a few stray strands behind his ear. “The clues can’t be too small, but neither can they be too large. Humour me.” 

Sherlock left a minute before he did and left instructions to find her for a dance before they parted. For appearances, she said, though her fingers had lingered on the lapel of his jacket and he thought that she might kiss him. Perhaps she would have if they had not heard a servant coming down the hallway. 

As for the dance, as much as their mutual exertions had tired him, he had strength enough. His time in the country had done him worlds of good. It was odd, but he felt more alive than he had since before his illness. He was well and truly lost, and the simple truth of it pulsed through his veins. There was power in it, and courage, and he was a sentimental fool because Sherlock was doing this to secure her independence. 

After his role was finished, he was like to never see her again. 

When he stepped through the final door on the heels of a footman carrying a tray of something finger-sized and smelling faintly of fish, the heat and scent of sweating aristocracy threw him off his stride. John found himself uncertain, though none looked his direction with more than cursory curiosity, and instinct took over as he sought a glimpse of Sherlock among the glittering masses. 

He found her making her way with deliberate nonchalance toward the far quarter of the ballroom and once he had spotted her, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of her. If he had been supposed to wait for a song or two to let her accomplish what she would, the directive slipped his mind. He paced her and approached her elbow just as she began to slow. 

Her goal seemed to be a dark young woman with curled, coiled hair and an aristocratic nose. She was lovely, with perfect posture and an arrogance to her that put him of a mind of Sherlock. The woman’s partner was a stripling boy, perhaps sixteen at the outside, who had a smattering of spots across his nose and the awkwardness of a yearling colt. She appeared to be an excellent dancer; she deftly kept her toes untrod despite the boy’s best efforts.

When she saw Sherlock drifting past, seemingly at random, John found the immediate revulsion on the woman’s face more than a little surprising. From his short experiences in Sherlock’s presence, he couldn’t fathom what she might have done to engender that sort of displeasure. He hung back, more intrigued than compelled to defend Sherlock from a woman with such a reflexive and obvious dislike. 

In the moment of distraction, the boy partnering the woman stepped heavily on her foot. She limped to a halt with an exclamation of pain as he babbled apologies. The boy’s entire neck and ears turned as red as his hair, and from the sound of it this wasn’t the first time he’d maimed a dance partner. Until he grew into his grace, John suspected it would also not be the last. 

Ignoring the disgust the woman was radiating and focusing on the recognition, Sherlock asked, “Miss Donovan, is it?” 

At this, John approached, more than willing to pull them apart if necessary. Sherlock was prodding some sort of wound, which seemed to him less than wise. “Should you be-?” John murmured to Sherlock’s shoulder, but she waved him away.

“Miss Sherlock Holmes.” The woman said, acknowledging Sherlock with a nod, flicking a speculative look John’s way, and trying tell the boy that she was fine, everything was fine, if he could just now stop trying to help she’d be right as rain in a moment. Sherlock simply waited, archly amused, and even when John placed a decorously light touch on the back of her hand to draw her attention and ask her to dance, she didn’t move. Miss Donovan finally snapped, “Fancy seeing you here. Did you require something?” 

“I require nothing.” Sherlock adopted an airy, blithe tone that had John leaning back to stare at her. Airy and blithe were two adjectives he would never in his wildest dreams have ever ascribed to her. The carelessness in Sherlock’s voice gave it a cruel edge that he had not yet heard; she hadn’t missed the woman’s cues for her to leave, she was simply not interested in taking them. So much did cruelty change Sherlock, he could now see the response of Miss Donovan for what it was: fear.

John had nothing against the other woman, but - Lord have mercy - John liked Sherlock rude and unapologetic. It was another facet of the intensity that drew him, and this other woman seemed to have no idea how to deal with its manifestation. For someone else, John could easily see how the response would be fear. It explained so much of Stamford’s warnings, of Victoria’s caution. 

God help him, he wanted to pull Sherlock away from the whole of whatever she was trying to do and have her focused on him. He could handle cruelty and carelessness where others could not, and it would be accompanied by- 

John dragged himself away from his thoughts, however, when Sherlock baited the other woman with an edged smile as she said, “I merely wish to apologise.” 

Miss Donovan didn’t ask why, which had John searching his memory for why her name sounded so familiar. Instead, she put a hand on the boy’s shoulder to steady herself and tested her injured foot before placing weight on it. When she spoke she sounded wary, “So apologise.” 

“I’m very sorry that I told everyone about you fucking Mister Anderson. Where is he tonight?” 

The other woman’s jaw dropped and she half-turned toward the boy she had been dancing with as if to cover his ears before she turned her glower upon Sherlock. Whatever fear she might have retained was replaced by fury and her low response came in as close an approximation of a snarl that human vocal chords could manage. “That’s not a proper apology. You’re slandering me all over again.” 

“Oh, I am sorry.” Sherlock didn’t bother with the smile any longer. “I’m sorry that you decided to take this further by fabricating a scandal for me to match your own. Perhaps you think you’re clever?” 

Miss Donovan held the boy by her side with a tight grip on his shoulder, though he looked like he would much rather run. That’s who this was, then, the woman that they had discussed at Sherlock’s party. Having an affair, and defending herself the only way she could. 

John frowned at Sherlock’s back. This was a torment and, if what Sherlock had said of her before was true, likely to ruin both of them by halves rather than Sherlock in full. John tried to interrupt, a compassionate gesture rather than a sensible one. He had no desire be party to destroying any other woman’s future than the one he’d already agreed to. Sherlock again put him off. 

The revellers around them began to slow and pay attention. Whatever Sherlock was doing to her voice, the flat of it sliced through the music like a player’s upon a stage. They were becoming a spectacle. Without conscious thought, John shifted into a grounded stance, ready to throw a punch or pull a weapon he wasn’t carrying. It was a poor response to social confrontation where the only cuts were inflicted with words and the only combatants were two women in full ballgowns, but John didn’t fight his instincts. It felt far too good to be recovered enough despite his current lack of wind to stand square and ready to defend. 

With a wide-eyed, hunted look, Miss Donovan seized upon John’s presence and his attempt to distract Sherlock. Her expression smoothed and she summoned more confidence to her voice than her bloodless face suggested she could. “I daresay I fabricate nothing.” She made a small gesture at John, one that only those immediate to the stand-off would catch. “Do not try to transfer your transgressions onto me. If you court and lie with sin, you must needs bear its fruits yourself.”

“Poetic. Suggestive.” Sherlock’s lip twitched, “And if my apologies did not satisfy you, then I shall add a third. I am sorry that this is not over.” Sherlock’s coldest smile bloomed briefly before she turned away. Over her shoulder, she added, “Be also wary of your lover’s gifts. They’re not his to gift. Someone will miss them before he inherits in full.” 

John followed close as she sauntered away. He did not care that they were not supposed to be blatant until Sherlock’s scandal could not be buried with silencing wealth and plausible deniability. Through Mycroft’s efforts, even were they to kiss here in front of everyone Sherlock’s virtue would remain determinedly intact. As long as she retained her virginity in the eyes of others she retained her marriageability. 

John knew the arguments, but he could hardly credit that Lord Holmes was that powerful even with Sherlock’s unwavering belief.

At the edge of the room, Sherlock halted. Surely they could launch the scandal here and now. He’d ruined her, hadn’t he? If all she had wanted was a sexual experience and a decided lack of virginity, he didn’t need to torture himself with a protracted affair. “Can I kiss you?” 

Sherlock’s chill demeanour thawed as she glanced down. “And make it harder to circumvent Mycroft? He works against me already, though with tonight as an example his effectiveness is to be debated.” 

“He cannot be that powerful.” 

“You would be surprised. But-” Sherlock looked almost uncertain for a moment, her gaze lifting from him and sweeping the crowd. When she continued, her voice held a touch of challenge, “Kiss me. Here. Right now. You’ll find out.” 

The sudden reversal threw John off balance. “It’s not part of your plan.” 

“Plans change.” 

“But you said it will make it more difficult.” 

“Then it shall be more difficult.” Sherlock shrugged with an elegant roll of one shoulder, rubies and amethysts flashing, “Did it ever occur to you I might want you to kiss me in full view of everyone?” 

Kiss her he did. John caught at her waist, no longer questioning, and her unbound hair cascaded around his face as their lips met. He could feel the sudden press of attention, and their kiss became ostentatious enough for the stage. Passion threaded through their theatrics as she curled a hand around the back of his head and combed her fingers through his hair. When they finally separated, he was panting hard and unsteady on his feet. He said, “That should give them something to talk about.” 

It seemed they were already talking. Exclamations of disgust and censure began to trickle into his awareness, little passive-aggressive digs that told him that he was transgressing. Sherlock paid them no mind. John saw no reason for him to either.

Before he got too smug, however, Sherlock placed a hand in the centre of his chest, fingers digging into the fabric. She murmured, “It’s not going to be enough.” 

“I can’t very well take you here.” John could not suppress a flare of annoyance, his smile dimming. It had been a very good kiss. His lips were still tingling. They had blown straight past chaste and appropriate to tango and tarantella. 

“You’re probably right. We’d be thrown out before I lifted my skirts.” 

She sounded so serious that it took John a moment to realise she was teasing him. He passed a hand over his eyes and, letting the nattering of their audience drift into the background, asked, “What was that all about before, then? With the Miss.” 

“That was the purpose of tonight.” Sherlock was distracted, searching the crowd. “The other purpose. Two birds. Maybe three birds, we’ll see.” She stilled before she could say more, her fingers curling around the buttons on his shirt in a small, possessive gesture. A familiar form ducked around a dancing couple and Sherlock swore under her breath. “Damnation. Tonight is over.” 

“Miss Sherlock. We need to go.” Molly pushed through the crowd, her jaw clenched, little white lines on either side of her nose, and inserted herself between Sherlock and John. Mrs. Hudson showed an instant later and each grabbed an elbow, securing their wayward ward. Though unrepentant, Sherlock didn’t fight them. Instead, she pulled herself up and graciously allowed them to escort her away. 

“Molly,” John protested, trying to get their attention. He had wanted a dance at the very least. 

Molly rolled her eyes toward him and while she did not look entirely unsympathetic, she was not to be swayed.

Still, John tried. “Wait. We were-” 

Sherlock cut him off. “I shall send for you.”

The last thing he heard as they found their way out was Mrs. Hudson’s, “You will very well not. Your brother will-” and then they were out of earshot and he was left alone in a crowd of curious onlookers. 

His evening was finished as quick as that. He had no desire to find another dance partner, nor sit along the walls and exchange shallow pleasantries, which meant that he had no reason to stay. The room was too hot and the thick perfumes would make him ill within an hour. He was tired, fatigued from his time with Sherlock, yes, but more that: he simply didn’t want to deal with the judgement thick in the air. 

John scanned his nearest neighbours, finding faces turned toward him while the eyes looked away and words were spoken from the sides of their mouths. The more he was exposed to these people, the less he wondered at Sherlock’s wish to be rid of them. Each seemed so pettily concerned with the state of Sherlock’s virtue when, really, it was Sherlock’s - and John’s, a thought which caused him to smile - business alone. 

Smiling still, he left the ball and found his way back to his lodgings. It wasn’t until he kicked off his dress boots and lay on his bed that he realised he’d left his cane in that little room off of the gallery.


	13. Expected Results

“Care to explain, Sherlock?” Regina demanded, throwing a small bundle of gossip sheets upon the side table. The ribbon holding them together slipped and they spilled onto the floor in a dramatic cascade, joining piles of scientific detritus scattered across the rug. Halting and surveying the damage, Regina placed her hands on her hips and raised her voice. “It’s far too strange, even for you. What’s going on?” 

Sherlock, seated at her table in her bedroom-cum-laboratory with a silver scalpel in one hand and a half-dissected eyeball in the other, barely acknowledged the other woman’s arrival. Her concentration was wholly upon her task, teasing the lens from its seat with nudges from her utensil. Every few moments she would scribble another observation into her notebook. Half a dozen destroyed eyes cluttered the racks just within reach along with a stack of unprepared slides and her beloved microscope. 

She had planned upon an evening at work to soothe herself after the row she’d had with Mycroft. A visit, especially one at an inconvenient hour when all proper Londoners would be at supper, had not been on the evening schedule. She had no reason to chat with Regina, though it seemed Regina had found a reason to chat with her. 

When Sherlock did not respond, however, the nature of Regina’s concern changed. At Regina’s small dismayed ‘oh’, Sherlock shot a quick glance over her shoulder and away from her chemicals to reveal an expression of growing alarm on her friend’s face. With fresh eyes, prompted by Regina’s obvious distress, Sherlock took a good look at her surroundings and found herself becoming further annoyed.

The lab was a disaster. Sherlock hadn’t deigned to pick up after books and harsh words had flown between her and her brother. She certainly also hadn’t bothered to right the furniture. Her workspace tabletop was also inundated with the layer of chaos that Sherlock considered her ‘system’. To the untrained eye, it looked like she could barely move without tipping something over and starting a fire. Small wonder Regina would worry. 

Mycroft hadn’t spoken to her for nearly three days, ever since the first paper had reported her public indiscretion at some otherwise forgettable young woman’s soiree. Sherlock rather thought she should be congratulated for getting the debutante’s name in the papers. Anyone else would thank her for the momentary notoriety. Mycroft, however, held no similar appreciation for Sherlock launching the Holmes name into London news and had locked the doors and left strict instructions with the servants for Sherlock’s discipline. 

Discipline! As if she were a child! To be treated thus gave her a contrary urge. She should pour one of her compounds into his bed and leave a smoking hole full of melted feathers. Still, despite her treatment, she wasn’t sure if she felt as juvenile as all that. Yet. He hadn’t restricted her to her room, at least. With the freedom of 221 Baker Street, she had been able to send her Irregulars on errands. Her brother’s ignorance of her little army made the continued strain of captivity slightly more bearable, though only slightly. 

The eyeball’s outer casing burst too rapidly in a beaker full of caustic lye, leaving her sample useless as a result. Setting the beaker aside, she steepled her fingers, rested them against her forehead, and listened for her guest’s approach. 

Regina picked her way across the room, trying not to slip on any of the leather-bound casualties torn from their shelves, and sidled toward the desk. Once the first shock of concern had taken hold, what passion she normally spoke with was channelled into the earnest entreaty of one Sherlock Holmes. “Sherlock. Please.” 

Refusing Regina was nearly unconscionable, akin to striking a puppy. Sherlock sighed and shifted on her stool to face the sweet-faced blonde. 

Regina stood with her hand half-extended as she hovered a step too far away, uncertain of her welcome. When Sherlock turned, however, she ventured a smile. 

Sherlock took her hand and patted it in reassurance. “It is good to see you.” Mindless pleasantries were easy enough, even when Sherlock was in a mood. “Sit, would you? If you can find a chair under all of this nonsense, that is. I’ll have Molly bring us tea.” 

As Sherlock rang for her maid and, once she popped her head in, gave instructions to bring a tray, Regina shoved books aside to create a path from the door to her chosen chair. The massive thing required righting and Regina struggled with it for a good minute in silence, her usual commentary absent, before Sherlock finished giving instructions and came to help. Exertion alone should not keep her quiet, so that when they finished finding a place for her to sit and Sherlock returned to her stool, Sherlock began to worry about her guest in turn. 

Studying Regina, Sherlock found her slightly flushed and wearing a dress that her maid had not properly cleaned. Nothing overly unusual, certainly, though her fingers were stained with ink that said she had been reading rather more than Sherlock expected her to. “Are you well?” Sherlock asked. 

“I should ask the same of you. Your laboratory! And- Oh, Sherlock, it’s too strange. Just look at them!” The grand sweep of Regina’s arm took in a great deal off the room. 

“At-?” 

“For the love of-” With a small sound of frustration, Regina clarified, “Your name is in every sheet, in nearly every column, for a single day. A single day. That’s impossible. Then, even more impossible, every publication that contained any mention of you is reprinted. Your name is gone. Universally. Every letter of ‘Sherlock Holmes’ scrubbed from the pages across London. After this, you are only mentioned in conjunction with one Miss Sally Donovan about your ongoing tiff. Otherwise, it’s as if you had suddenly died and they were all very ashamed to have been slandering a righteous, God-fearing woman.”

Already perched at the edge of her chair, Regina could no longer remain seated. Excitement drove her to her feet and she began to pace along the path she had cleared to the door and back. She continued, “My only reassurance that you had not in fact died was what I had read in the first prints. They were utterly convinced you were a ‘strumpet’ of ‘loose morals’ and ‘poor conscience’.” She spun and fixed her friend with a fierce stare. “What in God’s name is going on?”

Sherlock rubbed at her forehead as a headache began to form. Damn Mycroft. He had suppressed every inkling of her scene with John with the liberal application of money and favours. The kiss had never happened. Certainly her name lingered in memory after the strident denunciations already publicised, but memory was fragile and changeable. What John had hoped would carry the plot forward, the speculation that she had slept with him in someone else’s home, was relegated to merely a symptom of an overactive imagination.

She wished she could use such an imagination to slip through a looking glass and into John’s arms. He would distract her from the burgeoning ache in her temples by soothing a vastly more pleasant ache between her legs. 

Publicising her scandal was going to be as painful as she had calculated; this was one occasion where she rather hated being right. At least John’s kiss and its subsequent suppression had revealed her brother’s weaknesses. The holes in his protection of her reputation gave her hope. “I’ve stopped paying attention to the sheets.” She said and even Regina could tell the lie. 

“Sherlock. Christ.” Regina swore.

Sherlock raised her eyebrows. “What do you want me to say?”

“Just explain.” Regina came to Sherlock’s side and wrapped her hands around Sherlock’s wrist, clutching tight in entreaty. “Why would you be in the sheets in the first place? Your brother’s hand is obvious in the sudden silence but the only - only! - mention of you in the aftermath is related to an attack by Lady Donovan. You said you would let it drop. This sounds as if you had instigated another volley.” Searching Sherlock’s face for some sort of response, Regina frowned. Sherlock kept her face neutral, which was enough of an answer for Regina. “You didn’t let it drop.” 

The front bell rang. Using the distraction as an excuse to shake herself free, Sherlock left Regina standing by the stool. The strategic retreat ended at the bookshelf by the window, where Sherlock stopped to peer down at the street below. A deliveryman loitered upon the stoop. 

Regina remained by the worktable. “What were you thinking?” 

“I was thinking that, perhaps, I feel a great deal differently about my reputation when I am confronted with that infernal woman in the flesh.” Sherlock rested a fist on the window casing above her head and leaned into the wall. Not looking at Regina, she chewed her lip and waited. 

“You lost your temper?” Regina could sound no less convinced if she had been witness herself.

Sherlock smiled at the window, hiding the expression from her guest. “It seems that way. It’s not the first time, nor will it be the last. I am as capable of irrational action as you or Victoria or any child of Abraham.”

“And does this irrational action extend to kissing a man in public?”

_And a great deal more._ “I should say that it was a supremely rational action on my part to kiss John.” Sherlock did not bother to hide how smug she was about that particular accomplishment, but neither did she turn to look at Regina. 

The resignation in Regina’s voice when she spoke again made Sherlock wince. “Then every word of it was true.” There was a finality to the pronouncement that Sherlock could not help but understand. 

“Not every word.” Sherlock turned in time to see Regina’s face fall. “Most are true. I regret none that are.”

Before Regina could respond - and she wanted to, her mouth open to take a leading breath - Molly entered with a package. “Miss Sherlock. Miss Regina.” She curtsied, but it was a perfunctory curtsy at best. The package delivered into Sherlock’s hands, Molly did not linger, only murmured something about tea before she left once more.

Sherlock was not going to speak first, so she went about opening the package. Returning to her worktable, she nudged Regina out of the way to find a knife, nipping the twine and unfolding the entire thing to find jumble of gold and emeralds tangled up in its own chain. 

“What is it?” Regina asked. She was stalling for time, nervous in a way so unlike herself that Sherlock took pity upon her. 

“A rather unfortunate thing to find in the custody of a pawnbroker.” Sherlock tugged an elegant necklace free from the wrapping. Once she had the chain set to rights, she let it rest on her palm, catching the light. “Isn’t that pretty?”

“But what-” 

“It’s an heirloom,” Sherlock interrupted the question, tilting the jewels towards Regina so she might also appreciate their sparkle. An expensive piece to leave overlong with a pawnbroker. “Lent, retrieved, and then pawned at a little place near Drury Lane. How masculine is your hand? If it’s not full of curls and loops, I should like to borrow you.”

In lieu of asking any of the hundreds of baffled questions writ across her face, Regina answered, “Rather feminine, I am afraid. My calligraphy tutor was always complimenting me on my strokes.”

“Pity, but I should be able to manage. I doubt the man leaves love-notes often enough for the handwriting to truly matter.” 

Molly returned with her tray of cream tea and biscuits. A poor substitute for supper, but Sherlock wasn’t interested in food so much as tea’s fortifying properties. She served Regina herself, settling her in the righted chair and plying her with tiny scones. 

“Sherlock-” Regina began, staring into the clouding amber depths of her teacup as she stirred. She very carefully avoided all eye contact. “I can’t-” Halting, she curled both hands around her cup and ducked her head. 

There was nothing for Sherlock to do but wait, retreating to her stool near the workbench. No prompt she could offer would make it easier for Regina to say, not in so many words, ‘Our friendship is done. I have my future to look after.’ Sherlock sipped at her tea and watched her friend over the lip of her cup. Regina’s expression in profile - furrowed brows and eyes bright on the edge of tears - left Sherlock feeling cruel. It was better this way, but it was still throwing stones at a faithful hound to drive her away.

“I am not going to have enough time to visit you the rest of the season.” Regina spilled the words all in a rush, a neutered version of the ultimatum she should have laid at Sherlock’s feet.

“Is that so?” 

“Yes.” Regina told her teacup. Looking up with renewed courage, she repeated herself at Sherlock, speaking across her shoulder. “Yes. I cannot be seen in your company.” 

Better. Sherlock’s eyebrows rose as if she had not guessed what Regina was about. “Cannot be see- Well. I stood in support at your debut. What about our friendship?” 

Drawing an unsteady breath, Regina ran a knuckle along her lower eyelids, preemptively wiping tears that had yet to fall. “I do not approve of what you’re doing. This must stop. You are going to ruin yourself if you are not very careful.” 

After a brief pause, Sherlock said, “I see.” 

The words lingered between them. 

Regina spoke when it became clear that that was the only response she was going to get. “You are dear to me, you are, but if you persist in… whatever this is…” Regina took another breath, “I just can’t. I have two more seasons to think of and even the slightest hint of scandal, even by association- my family isn’t rich or well-connected enough like yours or Vicky’s that I would be able to still marry well. I do not have the option of settling for a sub-par alliance.” 

Taking a sip of her tea, Sherlock turned to stare in the general direction of the window, though she saw nothing. It was right that they go their separate ways. They could not be close friends or - if Sherlock’s complete destruction worked - friends at all. Sherlock’s behaviour would be a stain upon any relationship, warping it in the eyes of society and making all connected to her suspect. Loyalty withered and cracked in the face of such judgement. It was best that Regina leave without looking back. 

Perhaps if she repeated it to herself often enough, Sherlock would feel less anger at the prospect. 

She had never put much value on the concept of ‘fair’. Fair was for children. Yet, how was it fair that she must needs shed her feminine connections to secure even the most basic of independences? It made her itch for action, for distraction, for volatile powders and rosined horsehair and the curve of John’s smile beneath her lips. Even more, however, she wanted to be done with the whole bloody mess. 

“Sherlock.” Regina’s voice had gone a touch shrill as if it were the second - or perhaps third - time she had said Sherlock’s name. “Do you hear what I’m saying?” 

“You have repeated yourself twice. Same sentiment, different words. Thank you.” Sherlock brushed her thumb across her fingertip callouses. “You may go.” 

Regina choked on her sudden intake of breath, though she still had yet to actually cry. “You mustn’t think that…” She trailed off. 

“What mustn’t I think, Miss Musgrave?” 

The retreat into formality and Sherlock’s icy anger caught Regina off-guard. Closing her eyes, all she said was, “I am sorry. I am.” 

Sherlock stood, abandoned her teacup, and took up a post by the door. The thought occurred that she might throw Regina bodily into the hall to speed her leavetaking, but as soon as the thought crossed her mind she took a calming breath. It would be irrational to take her displeasure out on Regina. The young woman was only trying to protect herself. Sherlock needed to be civil at the very least.

Trying to conquer the anger and hurt she had expected and still been unprepared to deal with, Sherlock adopted her most imperious pose. “Thank you for the visit.” 

Regina wilted, shoulders curling as she acknowledged the dismissal and stood. Sherlock had left her with few options. Gathering her dignity, Regina passed into the hall, sidestepping Sherlock with only a fraction of her usual alacrity to halt just outside and offer a conciliatory smile. Only the touch of sadness around her eyes belied their conflict, her normal energy summoned through sheer force of will. “If-” Regina gestured, a helpless flop of her hands, “Well, if it becomes- if you can write, do. If I can write back, I will.” 

Eyes sliding from Regina’s face, Sherlock turned away, but nodded. She was committed to her course and Regina to hers. They would both do as they thought best, but they could write.

Saying farewell, Regina kissed the air near Sherlock’s cheeks and left without protest. Sherlock watched her go, watched the tension in her spine and the flatness of her walk. Unhappy. Dissatisfied. Sherlock had given her answers she did not want to hear.

The teacup that Regina had abandoned still steamed as Sherlock threw herself into the recently vacated chair. 

The whole encounter had taken little time. Idly, Sherlock wondered how long the scandal would take to force everything pear-shaped. Vilification was expected as soon as it became apparent that she was unrepentant, but- a day? A conversation? 

As long as the wretched novels that prescribed death as remedy for transgression remained as inaccurate as Victoria’s journals portrayed them, Sherlock would be content. She did not feel like she was devolving into a madwoman. She had no intention of falling prey to a good half of the seven deadly sins and truth be told she preferred solving murders, not perpetrating them. She was still herself, as likely to poison someone now as she had been prior to having unsanctioned sex. 

Sherlock took Regina’s teacup and sipped, only to make a face and add sugar. 

Meeting John had shown her that she could marry someone like him - or, perhaps, John himself, if Mycroft ever grew so desperate to make her a match below her station - and find herself well taken care of, but she had no desire to submit herself to an institution that did not benefit her in either expectation or law. She could not, would not, compromise herself to make things _easier_ for everyone else. She rejected the very idea that it was her task to ease others’ discomfort with her choices. Her scheme, as it still stood, would make her wishes to remain ummarried abundantly clear in a form that even the most dull would be forced to acknowledge.

Unfortunately, the attacks she had already seen in the papers promised to be the least of that with which she must contend. She only hoped that her family’s title might insulate her from the worst behaviour. 

She hated dealing with the fearful. Regina had been afraid, her rejection had hurt, and those had been only words of concern and self-preservation. The loss was felt all the more keenly, of course, because of their prior rapport, but even Sherlock was not immune to the negativity of others. 

Finishing off what little remained in the teacup, Sherlock returned to her workstation and occupied herself with the preparation of a new tincture. Laying out several eyeballs all in a row, she released a few drops on each. They discoloured. Sherlock dripped a very small measure of a secondary solution into the centre of each and waited for the reaction. 

The necklace rested in its box at her fingertips, and Sherlock spared a moment to run her fingers over the finely-wrought filigree. Any woman would be curious about the gift, and Sherlock judged Miss Donovan sharper than most in all but her taste in men. If its arrival inspired anything at all, it would inspire a need to investigate. 

If everything came together, Sherlock very much looked forward to seeing John again even outside of the necessity that she force the scandal. Whatever consideration he had shown her whilst intimate, he had shown her similar in elsewise neutral interactions. Small wonder that she rather wished he was here, now, so that she might ramble at him about her latest experiments or that he might tell her stories of the war to give her insight into his hollow look from his resting moments. She wished to take him apart and examine the pieces, like a novelty puzzle. More’s the pity she must leave him in London. 

John and his penis had been nothing like she had expected. Even Victoria’s journals had suggested that a rutting man took his pleasure where he would, but John… John had been considerate, though she did not know if considerate was even the correct word in this instance. He had left her sore and reeling, yes, and she had nearly fallen off the couch twice, slid down the wall once, and immediately ruined whatever time they might have had pressed skin-to-skin in the aftermath, but he had still guided her through the experience without the pressure of expectation that she had anticipated. There had been pleasure for her, despite her hesitations.

Three quarters of the eyeballs burst, outer corneas curling, fluid spilling across her workspace. Sherlock smiled to herself. Conclusive. The weakening provided by the first allowed the slow rupture of the second, destroying the eye without dissolving it completely. The evidence lifted her mood. 

She pulled a piece of plain stationary toward her and began to craft a masterpiece. Using the short description of the item scrawled on the pawn slip as her handwriting example, she wrote: 

“My Dear Saralyn- Forgive me, but I could not put the thought of you out…”


	14. Unwelcome News / In Flagrante Delecto

Sherlock chose blue for the evening and Molly helped her dress. Molly’s latest creation was all over ruffles and small rosettes, the neck dipping low enough in the front that once Sherlock had finished dressing and modelled it in front of the mirror it was nearly scandalous all by itself. Molly had started it before the whole mess with the gossip papers. Sherlock agreed to the last-minute addition of a modesty panel, especially as - to Molly’s knowledge - this little endeavour was an effort for Sherlock to find favour with the _ton_ and prove her earnestness to her brother. Any misdirection now would ease her task later when she needed Molly to be somewhere else. 

The dress could only be described as a masterwork. Even more technically complicated than the purple one, it had smoothly-arcing seams that fit together with nary a pucker. If she had wanted to, Sherlock would have been able to wear the base bodice and skirts without trim, so precise was the construction. Now, with the addition of blue roses and sapphires that ran in diagonals from shoulders to waist, as well as the vertical lace panels that striped her skirts, she could claim to be fashionable. Molly had outdone herself, truly. The dress was the perfect disguise. 

Her maid’s face was serious and focused as she peeled the bodice and over-skirt from Sherlock and set about adding lace to a neckline that would otherwise frame the swell of Sherlock’s breasts. Whatever shyness or stammering performance that Molly reserved for interacting with her mistress she set aside while she had a job of work in front of her.

Sherlock sat in her underthings and waited impatiently, her corset already laced tight and rearranging her internal organs as they spoke. She relaxed against the familiar pressure and rubbed her thumb lightly across her string callouses. “Molly.” Sherlock said into the silence, startling her maid to look up. “Tonight-” 

“Don’t mean to be rude, Miss, but forgive me my inattention.” Molly’s focus had not shifted, her fingers plucking the needle through the layers of silk and lace in a series of swift, delicate movements. She would be contrite later for interrupting, no doubt, but the press of time meant that Sherlock could demand her full attention only at the expense of being rather more than ‘fashionably late’. Lapsing into silence, Sherlock did not continue. There would be time enough to give both Mrs. Hudson and Molly instructions once they were in the carriage and on their way to the Donovan manor. 

With skill that far outstripped Sherlock’s meagre abilities in stitching and embroidery, Molly finished the addition in minutes. As she helped the skirts over Sherlock’s head and began to button her into the bodice, a sharp rap at the door brought both of their heads around. 

After sharing a glance of confusion, Sherlock raised her voice to call, “Yes?” 

Mycroft’s voice was muffled the door, “Are you ready?” 

With fingers fair flying, Molly and her button-hook finished the last handful needed to see Sherlock properly fastened. 

“Of course, Mycroft. I have been ready.” Sherlock’s tart response drew a giggle from Molly. “What do you want?” 

Shocking them both, Mycroft pushed open the door and waved a dismissal at Molly. “You’re coming with me to the Donovans’ tonight.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows climbed fair off her face as Molly squeezed herself past Mycroft’s bulk. Her brother gave her a mild smile and said, “I would like to keep the Lord Donovan as a friend and ally, so I am taking things into my own hands.” 

Displeased and suspicious, Sherlock asked, “Why would you bother? Your glad-handing happens at dinner parties and behind closed doors. I am interested only in reparations, which I daresay does not need your presence like a looming thundercloud.” When that tactic didn’t seem to make an impression, she tried something else. “I do need a female escort for image’s sake at least. You wouldn’t be able to keep up with me. In theory, I could dash through a gap between dancers and you would be far too wide to follow.” 

With the same rigid smile still in place, Mycroft did not rise to her bait, “My effort to give you reliable escorts has already failed. Since you will be trying to rectify your past errors and mayhap apologise to the Lord Donovan yourself about his daughter, I see no reason for myself to be any less than sufficient escort.” His expression turned unpleasant, “I need Donovan’s good will, Sherlock. We have… mutual interests. You are proving detrimental to our continued friendship.” 

Sherlock merely shook her head, not hiding her disgust at her brother’s priorities. She turned to collect her accoutrements. 

Mycroft’s presence complicated matters, to be sure, since he held no sympathy for even something as mild as canoodling in a closet. He had greater powers of observation even than she - by virtue of experience only, she would admit to no other cause - and he already knew that she had something planned. His eyes flicked to her fingers and she stilled her violinist’s tic. 

“Nervous, sister?” 

“Why should I be nervous?” 

With the delicacy of an actor, he affected an offhand delivery and examined his fingernails as he said, “You are to see your fiance for the first since the engagement was formalised.” 

“What.” 

“I have chosen a match for you, since you seem so determined to pauper me with nothing else to show for it. You should be pleased.” 

Sherlock’s temper got the better of her. “Should I? Should I be pleased? Shall I curtsy and thank you for relieving me of such an onerous duty as that of finding someone I should not grow to despise within a year of our nuptials? Has Mother been instructing you upon the proper order of events? First a son, then a daughter, then effective exile to administer an estate for which I bear no affection?” 

“You have yet to ask after whom I have chosen.” Mycroft remained unruffled. Sherlock considered scratching his eyes out, her fingers curling, or perhaps using the combination of chemicals that had proven so satisfactory in rupturing corneas. Before she flung herself forward to assault the architect of her irritation, however, a thought arrested her; Nothing had changed unless the man Mycroft had found was willing to be canonised after the scandal. 

She drew herself up. Nothing had changed. “Who have you chosen?” She asked. The choice would not matter. 

The corners of Mycroft’s lips curled upwards, such a small movement to convey such a great deal of smugness. “Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.” 

Against her best intentions, Sherlock startled. The identity of her fiance did not matter. Except Lestrade knew her, knew Mycroft. The men were friends and allies. Lestrade had known her father, visited her mother. She liked Lestrade inasmuch as she could enjoy the older man’s company and conversation, but she had no desire to wed him. Unbidden, the comparison formed: He was no John, for all that he was almost family to begin with. Casually, to hide her spike of panic, she said, “How did you convince him to take me?” 

“Simply put, the match benefits him.” Mycroft did not miss her efforts for he continued with, “Drop the pretence. Even you cannot be so blase about a near-uncle’s marriage proposal.” 

“Can I not?” Sherlock schooled her face into the polite mask she often used around her brother’s allies. 

Her slight smile only seemed to annoy him, for his expression soured. A moment later, he beckoned her into the hall. “We are leaving. The carriage has been readied. We might even be considered late.” 

Sherlock breezed past him, well used to dodging through doorways and avoiding his paunch. Flippant, she said, “Not a moment too soon.” 

“You will dance with Lestrade tonight.”

Already, Sherlock was modifying her plan so that when she replied to her brother her small smile had turned predatory. Everything might still work, and it would be worth the risk. Taking Mycroft’s arm so he could escort her outside, she asked, “When have I ever defied the will of my elder brother?” 

**

The Donovans’ ballroom held at one end a massive, expensive clock. The face was inlaid with ivory, black on white to make the numerals clear from even the furthest corner of the large room. The ticking gears were audible even through the music of the small orchestra that kept that busy dance floor well-stocked. Sherlock found her attention returning once more to the clock, tension mounting as she willed the great sweep of hands to slow. 

The night was going poorly. After Mycroft’s insistence that he be her escort, she hadn’t had a moment to herself. No one danced with her, which was not entirely a surprise. A good number of Lord Donovan’s guests had stopped to chat with Mycroft, but even if they had been willing to partner her for a dance or two, her brother’s subtle intimations that Sherlock’s dancing skills left much to be desired and that he was reserving her to dance with her fiance turned away a great many opportunists in pursuit of a more permanent alliance with her brother. 

Neither Lestrade nor John were here even as the hour grew later and later. Her plans lay in pieces. The clock face mocked Sherlock, the large hand moving inexorably toward the meeting she had set and was patently unprepared for. She stood at Mycroft’s arm, feeling superfluous, as he spoke to the Lord Donovan about his delightful party. 

Their host - though the party was ostensibly thrown by his daughter, Miss Donovan - was a robust older gentleman, portly and gone somewhat to seed with a beard large enough to hide a tomcat. Sherlock took his measure while he and her brother swapped greetings. The old man’s hands trembled; he needed time with his pipe. He hardly spared a glance for her, launching directly into admonishing Mycroft on behalf of his daughter. “Your sister and my daughter have not yet become the fast friends we hoped they would.” 

Mycroft’s polite smile had tightened in displeasure, ”Sherlock has every intention of mending fences, Lord Donovan. That’s why we’re here tonight.”

“Good. Surely all this will blow over if there are no more incidents.” The Lord Donovan’s words were clearly a command, though they were directed at Mycroft instead of her. Mycroft nodded once, a curt dip of his chin.

Telling the man off for addressing her brother as her keeper would be unforgivably rude. The state Mycroft was in tonight, he would decide he was better off an only child. Sherlock remained silent and sought their hostess among the crowd.

Miss Donovan stood with a gaggle of other ladies, holding court. Even from here, the glint of emerald and gold at her neck reassured Sherlock. The necklace, at least, had not gone astray. From Miss Donovan’s nervous flitting and the looks thrown Sherlock’s way, the note had also arrived and made an impression. The countdown was in full effect, then. 

Sherlock’s attention strayed to the clock on the wall. There would be no reason for the meeting if John never showed.

Interrupting her thoughts, the Lord Donovan addressed her directly. “Now, Miss Holmes. You probably do not recall, but you played your violin for me and several of my fellow diplomats recently. Charming evening, charming company, but I did not get a chance before to compliment your skills. Allow me to rectify that oversight right this moment- you’re quite good.” 

Sherlock’s lips twitched into a small smile, “A musician merely responds to an appreciative audience, Lord Donovan. I am pleased you enjoyed yourself.” The slight emphasis she put on the word ‘you’ had Mycroft wrinkling his nose and trying to quell her with a look. She ignored him. However much he disliked to recall her objections from the night in question, he needed to be reminded that she despised being used as bait for his schemes.

Mycroft’s displeased expression vanished the instant Lord Donovan grinned up at him and said, “She’s polite, isn’t she? I just hope my Sally will think the same. You’ll have her perform again, won’t you?” 

“Certainly.” Sherlock interrupted before Mycroft could answer for her. “It would be my pleasure.”

Mycroft shifted somewhat uncomfortably when she spoke, but Lord Donovan did not appear to notice that his question had been asked of the one and answered by the other. Sherlock and Mycroft shared a look of rare commiseration. The old man listened poorly and assumed much, both traits that made him an excellent contact, but a tedious conversationalist. 

The Lord Donovan cleared his throat and carried on. “I look forward to it.” Without pausing for breath, he turned his entire focus on Mycroft, tacitly dismissing Sherlock. Even though she had been hoping he would so she might put her mind to other matters, it was still an insult. On an evening with fewer distractions she might have taught him the error of underestimating her. As it was, she allowed the two men to slip into an involved discussion and effectively shut her out. 

Miss Donovan was easy enough to find again. At first, she kept with her female friends - all young and flighty and not worth Sherlock’s time. When Mycroft and Lord Donovan’s conversation turned toward Sherlock’s new-minted engagement, a topic near and dear to her heart, Miss Donovan began to drift toward an alcove that seemed unoccupied. Sherlock was forced to split her attention. 

“I expected that fellow you’d invited to be here by now.” Lord Donovan said, chewing on his moustache. “When you said that your charming sister-” Sherlock smiled politely at her mention, casting her gaze downward in modesty for an instant before returning to stare after Miss Donovan. ”-had accepted his suit and wished to make amends for her treatment of my daughter, I sent the invitation straight away.” 

Mycroft curled his fingers around Sherlock’s elbow, well aware that her mind was elsewhere. He said, “Then I have no doubt he was held up by some sort of emergency. I know he wanted to talk to you about-” 

Sherlock fought the urge to shake free of her brother’s grasp. He and Lord Donovan were tightening their ties to one another, something she desperately needed to happen, and she did not want to distract from that. Lestrade, however, was not an unnecessary element to escaping Mycroft’s unwanted presence, and he wasn’t here. He had barely a quarter hour to arrive or all her planning was for nought.

Movement captured Sherlock’s attention. The young Mister Anderson stepped out of the darkened alcove and into the light. Her opinion of his intelligence dropped again, though she hadn’t expected that to be possible. Whatever conversation he and Miss Donovan needed to have, it would have been best accomplished out of sight. 

She watched Miss Donovan question him. He reached out to touch her necklace and she slapped his hand away. Only then did he look at her face and shake his head. Sherlock could fill in their conversation from afar. ‘Did you write me?’ ‘Did you send me this?’ Anderson’s responses - both ‘no’ - were easily read even from here. His shock at the reappearance of the necklace was more than satisfying.

Miss Donovan turned from him then and cast her gaze across partygoers ostensibly there for her. Her expression flattened when she spotted Sherlock, who smiled sweetly in response. Before anything more could pass between them, however, Anderson held his arm out for her and she turned away.

Sherlock let out her breath in amusement and glanced back at her brother. From the way that Lord Donovan had the bit in his teeth, even Mycroft could barely get a word in edgewise. She would have worse luck in attempting to speak, no doubt, if she did not decline to converse with the boor on principle.

Trapped at Mycroft’s side, she tried not to fidget. Still no Lestrade. Still no John. She could handle an abbreviated version of her plan without Lestrade, if only just, but she couldn’t very well properly scandalise anyone without John. One might say he was both integral and necessary. As much as it pained her to admit, Sherlock did not have very many other options at so late a juncture. 

She certainly had no more chances. When the hour was struck she would miss her rendezvous. 

“Would you care to dance?” Lord Donovan asked her and she snapped back around to smile down at him. He held out his hand. His beard could smother a small child and his casual arrogance spoke volumes about his judgements of her intelligence, but she nodded. His hand was surprisingly calloused when she grasped it, her gloves catching on his roughened skin. A workman’s hands were not something she had expected from one of Mycroft’s Parliamentary peers. 

Even after she had accepted his hand he did not move. He only glanced at Mycroft and back at her with an expectant look on his face. She too looked to Mycroft with a deliberately vapid expression. Her brother shrugged and nodded, giving the permission that they both knew she didn’t need. The whole charade made Sherlock wonder how well the Lord knew his own daughter, for she and Sherlock were cut from similar cloth. 

They made small-talk as the orchestra played an upbeat waltz. Lord Donovan mostly wanted to know anything and everything about Mycroft and his interests. Her brother sat at the centre of an extensive network of individuals - those that came to his parties, those that he met in other locales, and those that he pretended not to know at all. She revealed only a select fraction, and it was more than enough. Sherlock dissembled as best she could, hiding much and revealing little and feeding him facts about Mycroft’s other allies that would make him more than a little loathe to release her brother from his grasp. By the time the dance was done, Lord Donovan’s eyes gleamed with avarice and Sherlock was well pleased with herself. 

Upon Lord Donovan and her return, she found Mycroft near the wall deep in conversation with Lestrade. Relief swamped Sherlock as she approached, an emotion which quickly turned to irritation as Mycroft beckoned her over to ‘introduce’ her to her future husband. 

He took great relish in saying, “My dearest sister, you are well familiar with the Detective Inspector Lestrade, are you not?” 

“You don’t need to tease her.” Lestrade chided him, extending his hand to take hers and plant a chaste kiss on the back of her glove. “Miss Holmes.” 

Sherlock gave him a sweet smile that caused him to pause, drop her hand carefully, and meet her eyes. “Detective Inspector.” She was going to be civil about this. “My brother made you an offer.” 

Lestrade knew better than to deny it. “He did. I accepted.” 

“Why?” 

His gaze did not waver. “I’d rather you have a chance at happiness than whatever else fate might have planned for you.” 

An unexpected answer. Sherlock’s brows drew together as she studied him. As obviously as he had rehearsed the words, it was equally as obvious that he meant his answer. She looked away, affected. An unwelcome mix of gratitude, affection, and terrified revulsion flowed through her. 

His answer, the sincerity with which he had offered it, and what it meant all gave her pause. The idea was not without merit. The arrangement would make them both miserable, but Lestrade represented a chance at a conventional and societally acceptable solution. Mycroft had set it up; he would not do anything that might damage his climb to the top.

Lestrade, however, was merely _a_ solution, and certainly not one she would choose voluntarily. He would, as husband, furnish her cage with all she desired, and in return she would worry at her gilded bars and produce heirs one by one. She would have everything she might need, at the price of her independence and - perhaps - her sanity. 

Rather than accept the sudden panic that clawed at her throat at the very thought of falling prey to the trap of convention, she managed a tight smile and said, “Of course, your acceptance had nothing to do with Mycroft’s unique ability to find you just the right people that might help with your Scotland Yard nonsense?” Her brother made an annoyed noise. She did not bother to acknowledge him. 

Compassion furrowed Lestrade’s brow at her defencive mockery. Rather than embarrass her further, though, Lestrade added a bit of bluster to his words and let her correction stand. “The offer outweighed the inconveniences.”

Sherlock let out her breath in a faint huff of amusement at his mild insult to her person, her panic dissipating somewhat. Inconvenience was so vast an understatement that it was nearly a compliment. She had an irrational urge to thank him, helpfully squelched by the intrusive interest of bewhiskered Lord Donovan.

“Scotland Yard?” Lord Donovan interjected, picking out the relevant-to-him element of their exchange. With that, Lestrade and the other two set off on a tangent about the ‘Detective Inspector’ part of Lestrade’s title. Sherlock did not relax, but she was more than glad that her moment of interrogation had passed. Released from scrutiny, her attention wandered. 

There he was. 

John.

Sherlock stiffened, catching her breath. The relief that she had had when Lestrade appeared redoubled and she nearly swayed on her feet, lightheaded. She did not know what had delayed him, not from this distance, but all that truly mattered was that he was here. Her eyes lingered a little too long, however, watching him slip through one of the servant’s doors dressed as nothing so much as a groom. The clock on the wall told her she had barely six, seven minutes. 

Mycroft’s hand sought her elbow once more, though he did not pull away from his conversation with Lord Donovan. The old man had fastened to Mycroft with obsessive focus. Whatever bad blood between Sherlock and his daughter, what benefits her brother could provide him vastly outweighed any rumours. With every ‘Lord Holmes’ this or that, she watched her brother’s expression turned more and more hunted.

Now was the time. “Detective Inspector?” She broke into the conversation and found the three mens’ attention on her at varying levels of irritation. “Surely you would grace me with a dance?” 

“Of course.” Lestrade accepted with a smile, of all of them the least irritated, and held out his arm. Sherlock was amused. She was as much rescuing him from the clutches of the old Lord as he was furthering her goals. She made the mistake of glancing at her brother and found him with a suspicious frown. He knew. She knew he knew. He tried to excuse himself, to stop Lestrade, but Lord Donovan made insulted noises and Mycroft was forced to apologise. Then too, what reason would he have for refusing a dance between her and her betrothed?

Sherlock couldn’t help it. She gave her brother a smile that showed all her teeth as she sauntered to the dance floor with Lestrade in tow. Mycroft did not follow.

Sherlock would always be the sacrifice Mycroft made when his ambitions were at stake.

When the dance started, Sherlock finally gave in and said, “Thank you.” Lestrade did not ask ‘for what’.

“Though,” she continued, “I don’t like the idea of marriage at all.” 

“You never have.” Lestrade was an excellent dancer. He did not even seem to be concentrating on the steps or the music. “I hope you’re not too angry with me.” 

“Why would I be angry?” Sherlock asked, giving him a smile she didn’t bother to make genuine. This close, she could see signs of his lateness. The discolouration of the fabric near his lapel. The faint smudge of dark soot he had tried, vainly, to scrub from his chin stubble. Relenting, she continued in a more pleasant tone. “I am, however, sorry that your case remains unsolved. Your fellow investigators have followed the lye lead to its very end by now, I have no doubt.” 

Lestrade chuckled, albeit ruefully. “Gruesome piece of work.”

“Have you kept a tail upon the disreputable ophthalmologist?” Sherlock asked. She tried to keep the question light, but her heart was in her throat as she asked and her eyes kept straying to the door that John had vanished through. If Scotland Yard had muddled its way further than Wiggins had reported, then her suggestions might be useless. 

“Optha…” Lestrade began, eyes narrowing. There was a beat of silence between them and then Lestrade missed a step. He halted in the middle of the dance floor and stared at Sherlock. 

Sherlock waited, desperately trying not to grin. This was, perhaps, not the best topic to be thrilled over. 

“No, we haven’t.” He said finally. Hands resting still on her shoulder and waist, he waited. 

She’d done this often enough that he didn’t have to ask her to continue. “It will have been a mixture of belladonna and lye, not just lye and certainly not all at the same time. And - if there’s anything else left in his sockets - you’ll find shoddily couched cataracts and evidence of a badly, badly failed surgery. He wasn’t stumbling drunk, but blind.” Sherlock watched every twitch of Lestrade’s expression and resisted the urge to encourage his dawning realisations with more words. He had, frustratingly, far more details of the case than she did, and the more broadly she speculated the more chance she had of muddying already silt-clouded waters. 

Another couple almost bumped into them, but still Lestrade did not move. Sherlock glanced towards where her brother was standing trapped, deep in conversation with Lord Donovan. He was looking away, but Sherlock had no idea how long that would last. She didn’t have time for Lestrade to ponder things while they made a scene. She needed to be off and away before Mycroft shook free. 

“Detective Inspector?” She asked, a little too loud and a bit more impatient that she would ever admit to being. 

Lestrade snapped back to the present and gave her half of a disbelieving smile. “You’ll forgive me if I abandon you?” 

“If it’s important.”

“Half of my proposal was because my job would be a great deal easier with you available for consultation.” 

Sherlock laughed at that. “So I was right.” 

“In most things, my dear.” He grasped her shoulders and planted a kiss square on her forehead. Moving away, he grinned at her rapid, flustered blinking and said, “There’s still time. If everything you’ve said- there’s still time.”

“Go.” Sherlock said, bemused. Other dancers were giving them dirty looks, but she only shook her head and indulged in a small smile. Lestrade headed for the door and his carriage. By the time he’d cleared the dance floor he was practically sprinting. If they hadn’t caused a scene before, there were certainly whispers now. 

Before Mycroft could use the disturbance to disengage from Lord Donovan, Sherlock slipped between the dancers and toward the door John had used earlier. It closed behind her, quieting the music and leaving her in a hallway that ran to her left and right. To her left, there were a handful of doors as well as the sound of flatware being shuffled about. To her right, silence. 

Sherlock went right. 

She followed the boot-shaped indentations in the carpet along the edge of the wall. John had turned a corner and found the first unoccupied room, minimising the number of servants who might catch him. Sherlock found the door ajar and slipped into the darkened room just as a maid bustled into view. 

The latch caught with a low click and Sherlock put her ear to the wood, listening as the maid muttered to herself about Lord Donovan’s expectations. Fortune was on her side for once, for the maid passed and did not remark upon anything out of the ordinary. Shifting to rest her forehead against the door, Sherlock let out a rapid sigh before turning. 

John stood in the dark, lit only by pale starlight spilling beneath the drawn curtains. As her eyes adjusted, it was just enough to see the nervous smile on his face as he took a tentative step toward her. The room proved to be a small study. It had a handful of smart leather chairs all clustered about a banked fire. A utilitarian desk was shoved against one wall. It would serve. 

“You made it.” She observed, beckoning him forward. “You worried me. Everything else I could compensate for, but I cannot do this without you.” 

Crossing the remaining distance between them in a stride, John slid his arms around her waist and buried his face in the crook of her neck. She froze, heart jumping, but he only stayed there to take in a single, deep breath before he backed away enough to look up at her face. “I waited,” he said. 

Threading her fingers through his hair, she smiled down at him. The smell of him filled her senses, overlaid with a mixture of smoke and hot metal coming from his rough clothing. She stroked behind his ear and down his jaw and, astonishingly, he leaned into her touch. More than his ardour, she’d missed his presence, like an emptiness one step behind her that she kept turning to address only to be disappointed. How quickly she wanted to keep him, as impossible as the prospect was. 

This was a newly revealed facet of her personality. Heaven forfend that she ever come upon a stray puppy. 

Not to let the opportunity pass, Sherlock kissed him, her lips lingering on his in chaste affection. She held him with a light grip at the nape of his neck, giving him a gentle squeeze when she broke their connection. He was solid, unyielding, and yet his eyes once more returned to her face for direction.

“Good,” she said. His hands were warm on her hips, broad and sure and pressing against the boning of her corset in a way that made her heart pound. She regretted her next words, “Slight change of plans. We don’t have much time.” 

His disappointment flared, but he gave her a small soldier’s nod. “What are we doing, then?” 

Sherlock smiled, stroking his hair. “Drop your trousers.”

To John’s credit, he did not question the command, unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning himself.

Continuing, she said, “It’ll be something quick and compromising. She should be here any moment.”

“She?” John asked, letting his trousers fall to the floor. 

“I made arrangements.” Sherlock shoved him back into one of the leather chairs that more-or-less faced the door, leaving his trousers abandoned in the centre of the room near the door. As they left his clothing behind, Sherlock said, “Last chance to preserve your dignity before all hell breaks loose. The appointed hour is nearly upon us.” 

“What need I have of dignity when I have you-” John’s voice held a ragged edge as he cut himself off. Sherlock frowned slightly, but it was too dark for her to identify the emotion that had halted him. He sounded frustrated, though it was not directed at her. “When I have you here, now,” he finished. 

Sherlock straddled him, kissing him as he adjusted his grip on her hips. He responded to the kiss with equal fervour. She found her racing heart matched beat for beat by his, the pulse in his neck pounding beneath her fingertips as she fit their hips together and discovered him hard beneath the thin fabric that separated them. She shoved her knees into the seat, her skirts spilling onto the floor in a cascade of blue silk and lace. 

Sliding one hand down his chest, idly counting the buttons on his waistcoat, she slipped her hand down the front of his pants and wrapped her fingers around his cock. 

He gasped, the sound almost pained, and arched his back. “Your corset?” He panted, fingers digging into the fabric at her sides.

“No time.” Sherlock stroked him, enjoying the way his breath caught. A quiet curse passed his lips.

John’s mouth opened beneath hers as she ran her tongue across his lower lip and for a moment they breathed together. Then John nipped at the corner of her smile and distracted her by moving his hands. He ran deft, solid fingers across the panels on her torso, brushing across the rosettes and clicking the sapphires together. Her breasts, framed by the sloping collar of her dress an covered demurely by her lace modesty panel, did not remain hidden. John prised one free to thumb at the nipple.

Sherlock felt the press of time, an urgency that spoke to their agreement that this was the last she would see John. “I had a list.” She said, low, quiet, and it was only John’s breathing that told her he was listening. “Of everything we were supposed to do. We have crossed nearly nothing off, and I had wanted-” She snatched another kiss, a taste of his lips. 

She continued, “I want so much and I have only just discovered it.” With her confession, she released her last reservations. She teased the head of John’s cock with her thumb, her other hand on the back of his neck to keep their lips together. If only they had more time. A minute remained. Thirty seconds. 

When the door opened behind them, she ignored it. If this was her last kiss, she was going to make it count. 

The startled, disgusted, “What-?!” finally interrupted them. Sherlock looked up from John, her hand still wrapped firmly about his length, to find a speechless Miss Donovan. She held a letter in one hand, the other curled around the solid metal of her necklace. 

Miss Donovan took in the spectacle with a glance, her eyes fixing finally upon the discarded trousers illuminated by the fall of light from the hall. “Don’t get up.” She ordered, lip curling and she looked up at the pair once more. “I don’t want to see any more than this.” 

Sherlock gently squeezed John’s cock in reassurance, bemused that he remained hard and twitching even with an audience, and released him to brace herself on the chair’s arm. The movement was hidden by the sheer volume of skirts that shared the chair with them. Miss Donovan could see little but Sherlock sitting in John’s lap. 

It was more than enough to get the message across. 

“Your brother is looking for you.” Miss Donovan said, her words clipped. She crumpled the letter in one hand. “I’m going to close this door and you’re going to get dressed and return to the party. No-one has to know about this.” 

“I’m afraid that’s not going to work for me.” Sherlock said, still breathing hard. “I need you to scream and call a bit of attention to our fornication.” 

“Why would I?” Miss Donovan protested. “I have never aspired to be a hypocrite.”

Sherlock laughed. “You were the one who first mentioned this scandal.” 

“I fabricated it,” Miss Donovan spat, “As you well know. I did what I must. You would do the same.”

“Don’t be noble.” Contempt threaded Sherlock’s tone. “Scream.” 

“I will not be party to your ruin.” 

“You’ll be vindicated, Miss Donovan. This will only confirm your story that I lashed out to hide my own transgressions.” Sherlock said, her sharp eyes still on Miss Donovan’s silhouette where she stood in the door. John was breathing hard, but remained silent beneath her touch as she pricked at the skin on the back of his neck with her nails. 

She held Miss Donovan’s gaze. “If you are still reluctant, consider this: That necklace is by far and away too expensive to gift to any but a lover.” 

Miss Donovan’s fingers tightened on the necklace and she drew herself up. “But I didn’t get it from my lover.” 

“Not this time, no, but it is distinctive and I’m certain that you earned a good number of compliments upon it at the debut you wore it to.” 

“Your point?” 

“It’s missed. None of your dear Mister Anderson’s heirloom jewelry truly belongs to him until someone dies, whatever he told you. They long since have informed Scotland Yard of the theft.” 

“He said- The pawnshop would-” 

“It is in your possession, Miss Donovan, and those records have been removed.” Sherlock said, and John shifted beneath her. She hushed him with a brief kiss on his temple, pressing her cheek to his hair. 

“What _is_ this?” Miss Donovan demanded, her tone low with a hint of newborn fear, “What do you want from me?” 

“Scream and make sure we’re found compromised in your home. I’ll see that the necklace returns to its owners. Anonymously and without requiring even a single farthing from either you or your lover.” 

Miss Donovan stared at Sherlock in disbelief. “You’re mad. Completely mad.” 

Beneath her, Sherlock felt John shift again, wrapping one arm around her waist and resting his forehead in the crook of her neck. She curled around him, protective and a bit wistful. John pressed a kiss onto the heartbeat in her throat. Sherlock closed her eyes.

Sherlock lifted her head to look once more across at Miss Donovan. “Scream.” 

Miss Donovan screamed.


	15. Train Station

Sherlock adjusted the brim of her hat. Steam from the engine just pulling away gusted up around her, obscuring Molly and their baggage. They waited on the platform with a handful of others. St. Paul’s station was busy and porters were appallingly scarce, and they had leaned on their cabbie’s good will and willingness to earn a bit extra to get them this far. 

The mixture of smoke and steam that hung in the air was almost welcome. Hopefully, no one would recognise her today, despite the crowds. 

Molly brushed at a smudge of fallen soot that stained the over-skirt of Sherlock’s travelling coat. “We’ve still got plenty of time until boarding, Miss,” she said, tone light. “I caught up with a porter just now and he’ll be along. You shan’t have to stay in London any longer than necessary.” She looped her arm through Sherlock’s and leaned into her side.

Sherlock patted her elbow and nodded absently, glad that her hat hid her expression.

It wasn’t that Sherlock was feeling fragile, but she had not been prepared for the backlash of being discovered in the Lord Donovan’s home with breasts uncovered and her paramour’s trousers across the room. There was a veil across her senses that had descended the moment they had separated her from John. Like a violin beyond a thick wooden door, the strains of her ordeal felt similarly muted. She watched the present from a distance, and the squeeze of John’s hand in hers was the last moment she remembered that contained any warmth.

As planned, Mycroft had been able to do nothing. The young Miss Donovan had been vocal in her vindication and the Lord Donovan more than willing to publicly exonerate his daughter at Sherlock’s expense. The success was everything she had wanted. Papers flaunted lurid accounts of her expulsion from Lord Donovan’s home. Her brother had been gone for the last two days trying to control how much damage she was going to do to his reputation. He was even selling their townhouse and finding another base of operations. Their residence held the lingering stigma of scandal.

Better, or worse, still: she was infamous. In the rare event she had ventured from Baker Street, anyone who recognised her even in passing had given her a wide berth or a choice handful of admonitions. If Sherlock could be forced to feel shame from sheer volume of censure, the disapprobation of so many near-strangers would surely have given her a taste of the emotion. Even though she knew she had done nothing but exercise her own independence, her skin began to crawl within proximity of those who made no secret of their disgust. No matter how apart she held herself, the words, the stares, and the snide asides found her. John’s easy acceptance and reassurance of her plan had given her the idea that the subsequent attacks would not be worse than she could weather.

Mycroft, livid, had ordered her to pack and leave as soon as possible. She had wheedled another day out of him, though she did not know what she had hoped would happen except that she might recover her usual equilibrium. From the moment she had been escorted from the damned room, everything had gone grey and dizzy, leaving her perpetually on the edge of floating away. It was an absence where she had expected to feel triumph.

She spent the extra day reading increasingly torrid dramatisations of her discovery by Miss Donovan, all the papers gleefully printing both this and her prior indiscretions now that Mycroft’s leverage against publication had been removed. Lord Donovan had seen to that. Every scrap of devilry even remotely related to Sherlock was being printed, painting Miss Donovan as ever more and more virtuous. 

Nothing dented her odd sense of estrangement from the world. Every time a little old woman crossed herself and eyed Sherlock sideways, it seemed to get worse. She’d been firmly set apart. Her status had insulated her from truly heinous retribution, that much she knew, but nothing but leaving was going to remove her from this surreal limbo she occupied; she was being shunned and scolded by turns. 

There was not a man who would have her now. Even Lestrade had withdrawn his offer, their arrangement no longer the beneficial betrothal Mycroft had promised. Though - Sherlock was sure - if she asked, Lestrade would still have her, despite everything. For the moment, however, he must be seen to do the correct thing, and leave her to seek her own absolution. Sherlock felt nothing but relief that she would not have to suffer in such a cage as a conventional marriage would have afforded her. 

She had won. Now she was returning home. 

Molly clung to her arm. Smoke billowed from the great engine that pulled to a halt in front of them, setting Molly to coughing. Sherlock held her breath. When the smoke cleared, she took stock of the rail platform once more, frowning at a pile of familiar luggage not twenty paces to her left. 

The owners of said luggage saw her at the same moment. Regina blanched and turned away, hiding her face in her shoulder, her collar pulled high. Victoria straightened her spine, grabbed Regina by the elbow, and marched directly into confrontation. 

Sherlock watched them approach with a strange sense of detachment. They were dressed for travelling, much as she was. Victoria’s expression was positively thunderous, a storm in her eyes and hurt in the set of her jaw. She pulled up short before Sherlock, spun the shame-faced Regina around, and said without preamble, “We’re escaping your mess by going to my estates for a week. Do you know how many opportunities you’ve cost me?”

“You didn’t have to leave.” Sherlock, her heart pounding oddly. She felt a strange sense of calm as she lifted her chin and gave Victoria a small smile. “You merely have to speak and tarnish my name. Is that not the way of things?”

Victoria looked mad enough to spit. Sherlock wondered if she should encourage her. 

Releasing Regina, Victoria raised her hands as if all she really wanted to do was strangle Sherlock. Flexing them into fists, she said, “After everything we’ve done for you, you go and do- do something like this. I thought you would simply knob him and we would just have to hide our smiles. What possessed you? After that apology and the gift-” Cutting herself off before she said anything more, she shook her head. 

A hiccough drew both Victoria and Sherlock’s attention. Hand across her mouth, Regina’s shoulders quivered and wet tracks traced the curve of her cheeks. Victoria’s anger wavered. 

“Stop crying, Miss Musgrave,” Sherlock snapped, redirecting her ire. ”It is neither necessary nor becoming.” 

“Sherlock!” Victoria reprimanded her. “Don’t you dare.” 

Sherlock turned a cool gaze upon her once-ally, unwilling to feel guilty that she was - in some fashion - the source of Regina’s tears. “Are we on a first name basis, Miss Trevor?” 

Regina swallowed a great gulp of air and folded her arms across her chest, not looking at either of them. She reached up to pull either side of her brim down across her face, covering her ears and hiding her eyes.

Molly had faded into background, half-attending their conversation while she kept a lookout for the promised porter. All around them the busy crowd ebbed and flowed as another train pulled into the station to board passengers. Their raised voices earned them several startled - and a few annoyed - looks. 

Victoria stared, speechless, for a long moment. When she spoke, she took her time, pronouncing each word with deliberate precision. 

“To Hell with you.” 

Behind Sherlock, Molly gasped. Regina’s eyes widened, tears no longer threatening to fall.

“Ah,” Sherlock breathed. She felt none of the shock the other two did, though she did not know if it was because she was not surprised or if it was because she could feel nothing at all. Instead of responding, she took several steps to her valise where it was stacked on top of her luggage and removed a discrete bundle of papers. With solemn ceremony, she offered them to Victoria, though the woman still had little white lines on either side of her nose, her jaw clenching repeatedly. Victoria did not take them, though she knew very well what they were. 

Sherlock smiled. “Thank you for these. They proved most educational.” 

Regina finally spoke up, her voice watery, “We thought they’d stone you.” 

“I am less versed in Old Testament retribution than I might be, but I believe that is only for adultery,” Sherlock said. “Which, thank heaven, I shall never have to worry about.” 

With a deep breath to give her courage, Victoria took the papers from Sherlock and pressed them to her chest. This was not the place to have them, no matter how innocuous a bundle they made. For Sherlock to handle them brazenly in the open was a calculated gesture.

Victoria took another breath. “So it wasn’t a case of that… that _man_ using the pressure of the scandal to secure your betrothal? He was beneath you by far, Sherlock. Low-class, scruffy, and simply appalling. I feared he was trying to secure a life well above his station through despoiling you. How could you stand it?” 

For the first time since she’d found herself on the carriage ride home from the Donovan’s party, Sherlock felt a flicker of real emotion. “I shall forgive you for your description of the good Doctor Watson, but only if you remember in the future that I will not tolerate such language in reference to the man to whom I offered myself.” 

Clamping her mouth shut, Victoria’s eyes widened and a slight frown creased her brows. “I shouldn’t have lent you these.”

“I am grateful you did.”

Victoria’s lips thinned, then she nodded once, hesitated slightly, then nodded again, her fingers tightening on the bundle of papers. “We must go to the country, Sherlock, or we’ll say things we regret.” 

“You’re supposed to say things you regret.” Sherlock could feel a headache coming on. She rubbed the bridge of her nose with gloved fingers. “That was the whole point.” 

“The whole-” Victoria began, voice rising again. “The whole point. You used us. Me.” She paused. “Regina. You used Regina.” 

“Stop. Stop, Vicky, please.” Regina cut in, her hands tight around Victoria’s arm. “Our train is boarding. I swear I hear it.” 

Sherlock hadn’t, nor had her train been called and it was due to leave quite earlier than any destined for the Trevor estates. 

“Don’t you understand?” Victoria said, tearing her eyes from Sherlock to focus on her pleading friend. “She-” 

“I know. I know. Just- don’t make it worse.” Regina wasn’t crying now. Far from it. If there had not been thick desperation in her trying to distract Victoria from their spat, Sherlock would have sworn she was hiding a smile. “She’s not going to apologise.” 

Victoria took several deep breaths through her nose, and her eyes became over-bright with unshed tears of both anger and frustration.

“You could though-?” Regina ventured in Sherlock’s direction. “I mean, it might-” 

“I have nothing to apologise for.” 

Regina gave a small nod, then looked pointedly at Victoria. 

Victoria shook her head, fixed Sherlock with a look of an intensity that startled her, and said low and half under her breath, “Is there a drop of genuine emotion in your soul or are you pure automaton? Did our friendship mean nothing to you?” 

Sherlock regarded them both, surprised to find that the ‘no’ she had ready on the tip of her tongue did not wish to pass her lips. 

“Damn you, Sherlock,” Victoria said, impatient with Sherlock’s hesitation. “It’s not a philosophical question.” 

“I will miss you.” Sherlock said instead, close on the heels of Victoria’s annoyed outburst, turning toward Molly where she lingered with the luggage. Her maid looked anxious, her hand on the arm of a porter as she gave him directions. Their train was announced, passengers instructed to the platform. 

“Come, Molly.” The conversation was effectively over, though Sherlock could not help but glance over her shoulder the other two women as they retreated. 

Regina caught her look and called after her, “Write! Sherlock! Don’t forget!” 

Perhaps she would. Sherlock returned home, musing on what she might have to say, her fingers entwined with Molly’s.


	16. Stew For Dinner

John stood within the crowded Criterion, elbows on the bar, head in his hand, and a pint in front of him. He’d half-finished while waiting, and had ordered a basket of chips to keep him from the emotion that sometimes followed alcohol. He hadn’t contacted Stamford for weeks following Sherlock’s departure from London and now that the hour they had agreed upon was here, he was having second, third, and fourth thoughts. 

Sherlock’s name had remained in the papers - unflattering and infuriating, leaving John heartsick - for not so much as a fortnight after she’d returned to her estates. Gossip had speculated on her prospects, and more stories came out of her less-than-social tendencies from the parties she’d attended since the beginning of the season. The gossip (however much the papers declared themselves society news) painted her as a woman to be shunned and avoided. A few papers offered a more tempered view of the proceedings, but they were few and far between. 

John had read everything. Then as suddenly as the furor had started, it had ended. Nary a word since had included the word ‘Holmes’ unless it talked about her brother and how he was recovering from the family scandal like a cat dropped at height. 

Without word, without news, John was at loose ends. He and Sherlock were over and done, agreement fulfilled, and still John couldn’t get her out of his head.

Looking up as Stamford slid into place next to him, John offered a sheepish smile and asked, “Cross with me? Shall we have it out?” 

Stamford stole John’s pint glass, took a healthy swallow, and shot him an annoyed look as he wiped his mouth. It took John a moment to catch Stamford’s mocking tone when he said, “Should do. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of you for well over a month. The least we could do is sort things out with our fists.” 

Not sure whether to be amused or still worried, John turned to lean against the bar and look out over the Criterion. It was a busy night, the dark panelled room full and loud. Everything held a normality that was at once grounding and alienating. The tables along the wall were covered with baskets and platters of savouries taking the edge off whatever brew filled the pint-glasses covering the tabletops.

His attention drifted across a group of rambunctious youths, more Stamford’s age than his, halfway to drunk and ribbing each other at volume. Their ribald jokes made him smile. He turned to study Stamford for a few seconds before finally coming out with, “Assumed you’d be angry.” 

“I am.” Stamford began, then corrected himself, “I was. The other girls had to leave London and wait for the sudden interest in their imagined sins to pass. Victoria was ready to have a go at you herself.” He paused, then finished off John’s beer. “Can’t complain, though.” 

John’s eyebrows rose. “Why’s that?” He asked. The man behind the counter set down two more pints. John nodded his thanks and claimed one for his own. 

“Because,” Stamford said, “Victoria doesn’t know if she wants to bother with another season.” 

“Miss Trevor? But she-?” John’s amazement made Stamford laugh. The sound contained a freedom that John had never heard from Stamford when they had discussed his prospective fiancee.

Stamford swapped out the stolen pint for the second full one and said, “She got a good long look at the spiteful bitches she had to spend each and every party with and lost her stomach for it.” A broad, genuine grin spread across Stamford’s face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “She’s going to accept my suit. We’re putting it to her father in a week’s time.” 

“Congratulations.” John said, relieved. “I feared that I’d ruined things between you and her.” 

Stamford levelled a look at John. “You think so poorly of me that the touch of scandal would put me off? That I would blindly accept vile rumours involving Victoria - brought about not by anything she’d done but by Sherlock’s confirmed premarital debauchery, no thanks to you, might I add - without simply asking her? I plan to marry her, man.” He scowled, offended. John couldn’t blame him. 

“I think rather poorly of most of London at the moment.” John avoided Stamford’s eyes and busied himself with his beer.

He had considered the possibility that Stamford would reconsider his pursuit of Victoria if her reputation were damaged. John was the outsider, a trait demonstrated admirably on the afternoon they had all spent together. He’d discovered then that his opinions upon a great many things were considered low-class. He’d gathered that making connections was paramount, and any question of character made it that much harder. For Stamford to stay with Victoria meant taking a hit - though minor - to his reputation, at least until the incident could be well forgotten. 

John said, “It wasn’t out of the question.” 

“Sod off.” Stamford’s scowl deepened. “Victoria’s a bloody lady. I’m neither marrying her for her money nor her purity. She’s human, for chrissake.” 

John bristled. “So’s Sherlock.”

“I hope you’re proud of yourself, then. Human or no, you ruined her. If you can’t have her, no-one can?” Stamford let out a dry laugh. “I would never have expected it of you. An indiscretion or two is expected, as long as nobody knows. Every suitor she could or may have in the future will know her name and precisely what she’s done with you. What you’ve done isn’t the sort of thing that goes away with time.” 

“It wasn’t supposed to.” John said in a low growl, the frustration speaking before he had a chance to catch himself. 

Stamford scoffed. “I’m supposed to believe that?”

John set his pint carefully on the bar. He hadn’t meant to say anything about it. If Sherlock had wanted to tell Stamford and the rest of them about what she was trying to do, she should well have done it long before this. Now that he’d said something, though, Stamford’s immediate rejection of the idea pissed him off. “Yes, actually. Bloody well believe it, seeing as it’s the truth.” 

“As you say.” Stamford replied, taking a casual swig of his beer. Halfway through the drink, however, he caught John’s implication and choked. John had to pound him on the back to get him breathing again. When he could, he asked, incredulous, “She planned this?”

“Look me in the eyes and tell me you think I would sneak into a very populated, very fancy home dressed as a gardener just to fuck someone?” 

Stamford’s lip twitched. “John ‘Three Continents’ Watson, that might not be the cleverest question you’ve ever asked me.” 

John swore. “Dammit. And get caught.” 

“You’d never get caught…” Stamford said slowly. “Why would she have wanted her name dragged through the mud like that, though? It makes no sense.” 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, John shook his head. “It does, in a mad sort of way. If you were Sherlock, what is the one sure method you have of taking yourself out of the whole business of having to deal with suitors when you had no interest in any whatsoever?” 

Stamford stared somewhere over John’s left shoulder for long enough that John started to worry that he’d broken the man, but then Stamford laughed - quiet and a little despairing - and said, “If I never had to worry about making a match? Never had to make sure I had the money to keep my estates? Didn’t need an heir? If I were a daughter whose only purpose was an advantageous matrimonial alliance for my family and damn my own wishes?”

They were both silent for half a minute.

“Hell. If I knew I’d survive it, I’d ruin myself,” Stamford said at last. 

“Exactly.” John said, then pointed at a table just clearing out. “Let’s sit.” 

When they were both situated at their table, neither of them spoke. The basket of John’s chips sat between them and they each plucked one to chew while they made inroads on their pints. 

Stamford was the first to speak. “What happened that night? Every account I read was different. In one of them, she was naked as the day she was born and marched out into the night barefoot. Another said she even declared for the devil, but I’m sure that one was fabricated. Those issues sold a great deal faster than their less-sensational counterparts.”

John snorted in amusement, but his humour died as he thought about the question. He curled his hands around his glass. “I-”, he said, then shook his head to clear it. “I couldn’t do anything. She was wearing clothes, only a bit rumpled. After the first handful of people arrived to find us, the Lord Donovan outraged and yelling fit to beat any military man I’ve yet to meet, she pulled up her dress to cover her chest. From there, she looked as modest as any of the other guests.” 

“So not naked.” Stamford sounded sympathetic. John offered him a tight smile. 

“Not naked, no,” John said. “There hadn’t been time for anything more than a swift kiss and rearranging her skirts a bit.” Stamford didn’t press for details, which was just as well. John was not in the habit of boasting of his conquests and wasn’t keen to start. “It’s the after part that makes me wonder what I’m even doing in London.” 

“Victoria said much the same thing.”

“She would know better than I.” John wished he’d had more to drink before he sat to try and explain. “There were more people than I expected to come running when Miss Donovan screamed. Her father. Maids. Footmen. A bevy of other servants that I’m sure weren’t even in the vicinity. There were even a handful of guests, but they arrived a bit later. Lord Donovan just- he wouldn’t let anyone get a word in edgewise, making sure everyone present knew for certain-sure that his little girl had been right. The nasty accusations Sherlock had levelled at her were all a cover for this, and how could Sherlock do this in his home when she was supposed to be becoming friends with his daughter.” 

“I’ve never seen someone turn quite so red.” John shook his head. “Apoplexy, or nearly. He clutched at his chest twice. There I was, shoving myself back in my trousers and wondering if I’d need to step in as a physician. I wasn’t sure if anyone would let me near him if he keeled over, and I’m grateful I didn’t have to find out.”

“It was Sherlock’s face, however, that was the worst part of the whole ordeal.” John said, then lapsed into a contemplative silence. 

Stamford had to jostle him out of his reverie with a, “What about her face?”

“The light went out of it.” John said, drumming his fingers on the table, fidgeting. “Out of her eyes. All animation gone, snuffed like a candle and replaced with a mask of hauteur. She stood in the middle of the room, a half a step in front of me no matter how much I wanted to be the one to protect her, and judged all who came to judge her. She found every one of them wanting. She wouldn’t even take my hand.” 

“She wouldn’t want to show weakness.” Stamford said, glowering into his pint as if it were to blame.

John didn’t respond, continuing as if he’d not heard. “You know how she is. Knows things. If there were any in that room virtuous enough to throw stones, Sherlock didn’t find them. I watched her look at each and every one of them and shake her head, like she couldn’t believe that the sorry lot of them were her jury. It only got worse as they led her out.

“I had a footman on either arm, and we were led out together. Marched, really, so that was partially true. They could have taken us out a back way, but Lord Donovan must have been concerned for his daughter, so we went through the party. Sherlock didn’t waver, didn’t look back.” 

John cleared his throat so he could keep going. “She had to appear unrepentant, but there were so many people there and they were so certain she was wrong. Even I started to believe we’d done something horrible. There was open disgust on faces as we passed, some directed at me, but more often than not I was dismissed. I was a creature, not one of them, and it was only expected that I would have crude appetites. If I had been ravishing her, maybe they might have taken her part and I would have been strung up, but- they turned on her instead. I was near enough to hear some of the things the women who came close said to her. 

“She refused to defend herself, refused to back down, refused to be anything but in control of herself during the entire affair. There was nothing they could do to her, nothing I could do to help her. They’d separated us as effectively as a guillotine severs a head.” 

Stamford choked on his beer again. John looked up and said, “You’re not supposed to breathe it.” Stamford waved him off with a cough. 

Once he was sure that his friend was recovered enough to listen, he continued, “Every moment that they made sure she’d done the unforgivable and I the rude-but-expected, it was as if she ran another thousand leagues ahead of me at a pace I’d never catch. Even when her brother escorted her to their carriage and we stood next to each other, she didn’t look down at me, didn’t even acknowledge me. She was just… just gone.” 

Silence again. Both of them finished their pints before Stamford spoke up, “Neither of the girls heard from her until they saw her at the station. It- didn’t go well. I haven’t heard from her at all.” 

John could not hide his interest. “Station?” 

“Victoria said only that she didn’t think they were friends with ‘Miss Holmes’ any longer. I’ve never known her to say nothing about a row, but she has been as tight-lipped as I’ve ever seen her.” Stamford said, shifting in his seat. 

John shook his head. “So we’ve lost Sherlock for good, then.”

“Do you blame her?”

“Hell no,” John said immediately. “She knew better than I what would happen. This- this isn’t about me.” 

“No. It’s not.” Stamford agreed in a way that made John narrow his eyes in suspicion. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Stamford spoke into his glass, not meeting John’s eyes. “Now that all is said and done and she doesn’t have to worry about fighting her family over suitors for the rest of her natural days, have you asked her what she wants?” 

“When would I have had a chance?” John groused, sinking down into his seat and manfully not sulking. 

“She’s bloody well not in London, is she?”

“No she’s-” John cut himself off, “Oh, I am an idiot.” 

Stamford didn’t contradict him. “A scandal of this magnitude isn’t something that leaves the status quo intact for anyone. Victoria and I could have waited another two miserable years, but she’s decided that plan no longer suits her.” He paused, then ventured, “Regina says Sherlock returned a letter and might- she says it’s still Sherlock, but she doesn’t sound the same as when she used to write from her estate.” 

No slouch in the mental department, John slid from the table and offered Stamford enough money to cover his part of the tab. Stamford waved him away. 

John said, “See you when I get back, yeah?” 

Stamford’s military salute was a bit on the sloppy side, but John grinned at him for it as he spun on his heel. He had been watching the train schedules, cursing himself for a hopeless romantic and a fool. The line that would take him nearest the Holmes estates left in an hour, leaving him just enough time to pack and board if he hurried.


	17. Unintended Consequences

The beaker shattered against the wall in a shower of glass. Sherlock snarled under her breath, cursing with some of the choicer phrases that Wiggins had used when he’d been ranting about some failure of his troops or other. Instead of making her feel better, however, the words further fouled her mood by reminding her that she no longer had access to her Irregulars. At her estates, where she’d been content until her first season, she was cut off from the pulse and throb of London. Even Lestrade, after the scandal, had wisely severed contact with her so had neither access to nor influence on any of the trickier cases out of Scotland Yard. 

She hated being wrong. 

Her laboratory sprawled about her in stone, glass and metal. Scorch marks marred the thick hardwood of her workbench and acid etching formed patterns on the flags beneath her feet. This was her favourite place, the environs in which she spent the most time. She was comfortable here, relaxed here, and in her element here. She was performing all the research she had not been able to find supplies or time for in London. Half a dozen papers scattered about her surfaces in various states of completion detailed her discoveries and were destined for an equal number of prestigious journals for publication. She was productive, home, and had no desire to return to the distraction of the season. 

London, however, was another matter. She craved London with the intensity she more often reserved for her more enthralling projects. The sound of birds, the bleating of sheep, and the infuriatingly pastoral sights and smells that were so familiar and so foreign now filled her senses. 

There was nothing here for her any more than there had been anything for her at the interminable parties of the season. And - perhaps - in her secret heart of hearts, she was hoping she might find John again, if only once. Where before she had been certain of what she wanted, London had changed her, given her new passions and experiences. New desires. After coming to an understanding with her Mother, she was free of even the prospect of suitors, gloriously independent and expected to do no more than manage the estate in the event the rest of her family shuffled off the mortal coil.

Molly poked her head into the laboratory at the sound of falling glass, eyes going first to Sherlock and then to the bubbling trail of thick fluid that seeped down the stone. “Miss?” Molly asked. 

If she broke any more of her equipment, she’d be forced to return to London and hunt down her once-lover. Sherlock eyed another beaker half-full of liquid speculatively.

Sherlock placed her palms flat upon her worktable and leaned. Staring at the scarred wood as her head drooped between her shoulders, she grunted. “It’s nothing, Molly. Don’t breathe it.” She ordered. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Molly nod, but not leave. Sherlock frowned, canting her head toward the door and peering impatiently from under her arm. “Did you need something?” 

Though Sherlock had not been any sharper with her than usual, Molly flushed and said, “You’ve a visitor.” 

“Send them in.” Sherlock said, turning from her workbench and stripping off her leather apron. She wore a simple dress shirt with long sleeves that would tuck easily into the thick gloves that kept her fingers from harm and trousers that would scandalise most of the _ton_ , their leather spotted, speckled, and holed through with dripped acid. Her serviceable boots were no worse off, though Molly had polished them recently for some ungodly reason, most likely because Sherlock had required no more than the bare basics since they’d returned from London and the woman was equally as bored out of her skull. 

Barring a prompt return to London and all the madness inherent in a thriving metropolis, Sherlock could do with a distraction. She found a stool covered with clamps and callipers, swept them to the floor with a clatter of metal on stone, and seated herself. 

When Molly led John through the door, however, Sherlock found herself up and halfway across the room before she recalled herself and pulled up short. “What are you doing here?” 

John was staring at her, his hat in his hands. For a long moment he did not speak. Sherlock looked him over, puzzled by his motley of suit-pants and work-shirt, rougher clothing that she had seen him wear even during their last encounter. He looked for all the world as if he’d discovered himself with only half of his clothes packed and had to make do with what he’d brought. The thought charmed her and she searched his face for expression, his demeanour for intent. 

He said, “To call upon you,” and gave a little laugh, a half-smile finding his lips.

“But- but why?” Sherlock said, taking another step forward. John looked uncertain whether she was welcoming him or not.

Sherlock’s heart was near beating out of her chest, her limbs tingling with unnamed emotion. It had been weeks since she’d last seen him. She had done everything in her power to put him aside, to distract herself, but everything she’d done had only reminded her of London, of her time there, and of him.

When John did not speak, she demanded again, “You’re here- why?” 

“Because you’re here.” John said, as if it were that simple. 

Perhaps it was that simple. 

Banishing her hesitancy, Sherlock straightened. She strode across the room, wrapped her arms about John’s neck, and kissed him soundly on the lips. Molly squeaked and fled, the door shut firmly behind her. 

John met Sherlock’s kiss with passion, folding his arms tight around her until their bodies were sealed together and she could feel the heat flare between them. 

She could not believe that he was here, that he had come to her in her isolation. She had expected wistful remembrance on her part, nostalgia and fondness, not the flare of heat when she once more looked upon his face. From him she expected nothing. There had been no reason to ask him here, their arrangement consummated. Only time had shown Sherlock precisely what she’d bargained away. 

Sherlock pushed him back against the door with a thud that shook the wood, wrapping one leather-clad leg around his and tilting her head to give her tongue better access to his mouth. They kissed until they were out of breath and Sherlock was forced to pull away or fall down. John’s hands continued to caress her thighs and ass and the sensation sent a thrill up her spine. “What do you want?” 

“You.” John said. “Marry me.” 

Before Sherlock could help herself, she laughed in his face. 

“After all that? Of course not.” She braced herself on the wall, one hand above either of his shoulders and shook her head at him, breathless from their kiss and unable to catch it back for laughter. 

John just grinned up at her, breathing equally as hard and holding tight to her waist as if he’d never let her go. “I thought not. Then come to London with me anyway. Be my flatmate. Live in sin and debauchery with me.” 

Sherlock, for all her mental prowess, had a distinctly hard time wrapping her head around the offer. “Sin and debauchery, is that a promise?” She could hardly believe it. John stood before her, come to find her on his own volition, in a hurry and with every sign of the same frustration she felt at the too-soon end of their involvement. 

“Every word of it.” John replied, lifting one hand to tug at the collar of her shirt and plant a kiss on the curve where her neck met her shoulder. The touch of his lips stole her breath again and she lifted his chin to press their foreheads together so that he might not steal her wits as well. 

“London,” she exhaled the word, stroking the breadth of his shoulders with a wondering touch. “Did you have a place in mind?” 

“Not yet.”

Sherlock’s smile turned sharp, her expression mischievous. “Then I have just the flat picked out.” 

With a laugh, John sought another kiss. This one lingered long past the moment when Molly began to pound politely on the workshop door. When Sherlock pulled away, she asked, “Would you follow me to London?” 

“Was there ever a question?” John stroked her cheek with a gentle finger. 

“You’re just here to find out what was on my list, aren’t you?” Sherlock asked, a smile in her voice. John kissed her then, and it was answer enough.


	18. Epilogue

The voices from the hallway, raised in argument, interrupted Sherlock’s concentration. Looking up from her microscope, she shifted her chair back from the kitchen table and looked over at where John was reading by the fire. She put her elbow on the table and leaned her lips into her fist, hiding her smile as she listened.

From outside: “No- No- please, Mrs. Hudson. I swear to you, they weren’t needing another polish, especially not another polish _today_.” 

“Brass needs polish, Molly.” Mrs. Hudson said, serene. “I won’t shirk my duties.” 

Sherlock swallowed a laugh, the noise drawing John’s attention from his book. He looked up in query. Lifting her head, she gestured to the door with her chin and said, low so Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t hear, “She’s polishing the numbers again.” 

With a snort, John put down his book and stood. “Mrs. Hudson,” he said as he made his way to the door of the flat and pulled it open. The shiny new brass of 221b flashed as the door swung to reveal both women fussing over a polishing cloth. John rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Mrs. Hudson. You don’t need to polish them at all.” 

“Then what good of a housekeeper do I make?” 

“An excellent one, because nobody polishes the numbers on anyone’s flat.” John said, his tone just patient enough to make it clear he was humouring her. 

“They don’t need us here,” Molly added. “They’re enjoying a quiet evening. Let ‘em be. You can bring up supper later.”

Mrs. Hudson turned away, relinquishing the rag to a relieved Molly. “And what will I do in the meantime?” 

“Enjoy your retirement.” Molly said, slipping her arm through the older woman’s and gently leading her toward the stairs down. She threw a look over Mrs. Hudson’s shoulder as Sherlock came to lean on the door-jam, winked, then patted Mrs. Hudson on the hand, much to the housekeeper’s annoyance. 

“I neither dodder, nor am I retired.” Mrs. Hudson announced, pulling her hand away and marching down the stairs on her own rather than letting herself be led. Molly followed on her heels, just missing stepping on her skirt as they swept down to the flat below. 

John shut the door behind them and turned to Sherlock, gathering her in into his arms. “She’ll get used to the idea.” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and he clarified, “Of being retired.” 

“She won’t retire until she decides she’s retired,” Sherlock said. 

Mycroft had bargained that in return for not selling the Baker Street townhouse even after its conversion to flats, Sherlock would not live unwed in London without her Lady’s Maid and a proper housekeeper. Now Mrs. Hudson ruled over a household of precisely two servants, and Molly’s duties had lightened to the point where Sherlock could not even justify keeping Molly’s seamstress skills for herself if she never used them. 

“Be glad she hasn’t yet,” she said, smirking at John. “One of us would have to learn to cook.” 

Pulling Sherlock away from the door and toward the settee, John kissed her soundly and refused to rise to her challenge. They had just tumbled onto the cushions in a flurry of skirts, Sherlock climbing into John’s lap to finish what they’d started when there was a knock at the door. 

Sherlock continued to kiss up John’s cheekbone to nibble at his ear as he called, “We’re not in!” 

“Sherlock! Open this instant!” 

The voice on the other side of the door made them both pull up short and look to each other in surprise. Sherlock swivelled, peeling herself from John to open the door and greet their visitor. “Victoria?” 

They hadn’t seen each other in months, Sherlock’s only contact with her two friends the letters she exchanged with Regina. Still, Victoria shouldered past Sherlock and into the room, ignoring John’s bafflement. Sherlock shook her head at him, a slight smile on her face as she took in her friend’s state of distress and the small box she held tight to her side. 

“I need your help.” Victoria said without preamble. “I received a parcel and a message, and my father is beside himself and won’t tell me why.” 

John came to stand a step behind Sherlock as Victoria proffered the box. Sherlock accepted and hefted it, raising her eyebrows in query. “And what makes you think I’d be able to help?” She pulled the tie free and let it fall to the ground. Without waiting for an answer, she opened the lid. John, peering around her arm, made a small sound of surprise. Sherlock began to laugh.

Exasperated, Victoria threw her hands in the air. “Because the last time I received a severed hand in a box, it came from you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> I'm keeping both an livejournal and a tumblr for my fic and fic-related things, so feel free to follow me at either [Desiderii-fic on tumblr](http://desiderii-fic.tumblr.com/) or [Desiderii on Lj](http://desiderii.livejournal.com)
> 
> Most of my research was of the internet sort, elaborating on what I've gathered from period novels and ancient lessons, but if anyone is interested in reading further on the subject of sex in the Victorian era, I highly recommend the book The Other Victorians: A Study of Sexuality and Pornography in the MId-Nineteeth Century England. It was written in the 1960s, revised in the '70s, and contains a wealth of information about the attitudes of the era. 
> 
> [_The Pearl_ is here.](http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Pearl) It contains a great deal of spanking/caning, because Victorians and also reasons, and it is worth a look if you're at all curious. 
> 
> Here's the full text of the kmm for your delectation, just in case the lj post disappears from the internet:
> 
> _“You'll need to either genderbend Sherlock or imagine it's a universe where second born sons are treated just like daughters, or something to that effect._  
>  _Sherlock has always detested the thought of marriage. He has never had any desire for children, or a country house, or to essentially become the property of his husband. No, his desires lay purely with academic and scientific pursuits. So, the day his family begins talking about finding him a husband is one he's been dreading all his life. But, of course, Sherlock has a plan._  
>  _After the topic is brought up, Sherlock begins taking day trips off the family estate, into the city. The family thinks that perhaps he's looking for a husband himself, but no. Sherlock is looking for a man to take his virginity._  
>  _If he 'ruins' himself, and makes sure that everybody knows it, then of course his family will never be able to find a respectable husband to give him away to. But, if he has his way, it is going to be his only sexual encounter, so he takes his time in trying to find the best man for the duty._
> 
> _Dr. John Watson is recently returned from the war and in desperate need of companionship. John has even thought of looking for a prostitute to ease his loneliness, but he knows most of those poor souls are out there because of desperation, and he can't stand the thought of taking advantage of that._  
>  _But nobody looks twice at a sickly invalid, war veteran or not. Nobody, that is, except Sherlock Holmes._  
>  _Sherlock tells John exactly what he desires and why he's doing it. He assures John that, yes, it's exactly what he wants and it's entirely consensual._  
>  _In all the time they spend together, however, John can't help but be in awe of Sherlock's mind, while Sherlock marvels at John's compassion and understanding._
> 
> _I'll adore you if you make it as realistic as you can, including how Sherlock deals with the aftermath of his actions. And please, no omega!verse or D/s world or anything like that. The Victorian morals are already almost too much for me..._
> 
> _TLDR: Victorian AU - In fear of being married off to a husband, Sherlock tries to find a man to take his virginity so that he can escape his fate. He finds John.”_


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